


Thaw

by Emmythos



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Abuse/Rape Does Not Occur Between Romantic Leads, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Disturbing Themes, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Non-Explicit Sexual Content Involving A Sixteen/Seventeen-Year-Old, Not Dark Fic, Personal Growth, Physical Abuse, Post-Apocalypse, Redemption, Sexual Abuse, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8190403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmythos/pseuds/Emmythos
Summary: Unofficial sequel to Counterfeit God's Cold, But Not Dead. Sephiroth had no intention of ever seeing Vincent again, but fate has a way of bringing them violently together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cold, But Not Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/232471) by Counterfeit God. 



> This story will make absolutely no sense if you haven't read Counterfeit God's Cold, But Not Dead, a sixty-one chapter unfinished opus that haunts me to this day. It's somewhat of a catch-22, because I can't in good conscience recommend it - even though it's amazing - on account of it being quite the commitment for something that was ultimately abandoned, but it's necessary to understanding this story. Furthermore, if you were to actually read the original, you would likely find this work disappointing, as it is not so much a continuation as it is an alternate timeline of sorts. In all honesty, this is me being self-indulgent for the sake of my own catharsis. I lack both the talent and vision to complete the original, and I'm even ignoring the last chapter to suit my own selfish narrative. As long as we're being real here, it's a fanfic of a fanfic. 
> 
> My recommendation is that no one should read this ever. But I'm going to go ahead and post it, because there are maybe two people I know who are interested. And who knows, maybe you remember CBND from way back in 2008/2009, and wouldn't mind some catharsis yourself.  
>  
> 
>  **Addendum:** If you have **not** read the original, please be aware that it contains **explicit sex between an adult and a minor (Chapters 33, 39, 40, and 56) and graphic depictions of child abuse (Chapters 41 and 54).** If you understandably find content of this nature deeply upsetting, _please_ proceed with caution, or choose not to proceed at all. Wishing you all good mental health and a safe and responsible internet experience.
> 
>    
>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS: Rape Involving A Sixteen-Year-Old**

The room was small, laden with outdated communications equipment. There was a large screen on the wall opposite the door: old, dusty, and cracked in the right uppermost corner. The radio beneath it beeped lazily, visibly damaged, but presumably still capable of receiving incoming transmissions. Outgoing was another matter entirely. The microphone would not turn on, and the camera was shattered beyond repair. No one had bothered to replace any of it. It was a far cry from Shinra’s sophisticated technology.

Sephiroth was pacing in front of the screen. The space had been converted into a temporary office; he needed a place to think. He had been growing steadily more and more restless, having made the decision to abandon Shinra, at least for the time being, a year prior after receiving the call from Angeal informing Sephiroth of his and Genesis’ degradation. After going AWOL on what was to be his last mission, he had made his way to Icicle Inn as quickly and as secretly as possible. Soon after, they abandoned Gast’s primary residence, taking what they needed and moving northeast. The house was decidedly unimpressive, but unassuming, hidden. They had destroyed their cellphones shortly before relocating, but in truth it made little difference to Sephiroth if Shinra knew or not. They would be too fearful to deploy men to find him, and perhaps even to question his motives. If anything, they would be planning how best to appease their prize commodity in order to seduce him back into their service. Terminating him would not even be considered an option. He would deal with them later.

Sephiroth had not yet truly spoken with Gast. He said only what was necessary to discuss if and how his friends might be cured. Gast seemed too fearful—or perhaps it was guilt—to push him. He ignored the old man, well aware of the grief-stricken looks the scientist threw his way. He did not trust himself to maintain his unwavering apathy were he to speak of the past. What did it matter why Gast had left? He had done it. Let him wallow in his guilt. Let him look at the monster he’d left behind in that cold, dark hell and despair.

A tendril of thought squirmed into his brain, insistent and uncomfortable, something he had not been able to rid himself of for the past year: had he not left behind Vincent?

He crushed the thought immediately, a coldness settling over his insides, almost comforting. There was no place for Vincent in his heart. There never had been. Telling him would have been a liability, taking him with them out of the question. He had done what he had promised. The boy would move forward. There was no longer any reason to think of him.

Or so he told himself.

His blood was a temporary salvation for Angeal and Genesis, but not a solution. They still needed him, and they still needed Gast, so here they were, rotting away in the Northern Continent, grasping at straws. What would he do if they could not be saved? Sephiroth refused to consider it; it was a question for another time. But yes, he was growing restless. He was not a saviour. He was a killer. And to put a killer in a cage of any kind was to invite destruction.

For once he was not alone in the room. Genesis, with whom he’d come to a reluctant, simmering, and likely short-lived truce out of necessity, was brooding in the corner closest to the door. His hair was almost completely auburn again, although wisps of white were a reminder that the danger was far from over. Angeal was seated on the worn couch across from Genesis, and Zack next to him.

Zack was not well, clearly burdened. He was like a civilian who had stumbled into a warzone. His mentor was dying. He had been, for all intents and purposes, forced to abandon Shinra by association—they couldn’t very well send him back without putting his life in jeopardy. Everything he knew was at risk of being pulled out from under him. And he missed Vincent. Sephiroth knew this. Zack had asked about Vincent once, near the beginning. He had not asked since.

Angeal, although fairing considerably better than Genesis, looked drawn. “Sephiroth, I don’t know how much longer we can stay here.”

Sephiroth sighed, but stopped pacing to acknowledge his friend.

“We’re not making any progress. We’re underequipped. And we need to get out from under Shinra’s radar. I know you’re not afraid of them, Sephiroth, but they’re not going to stall forever.”

“And where do you suggest we relocate?” Sephiroth asked. “Where would we go that would grant us both sufficient equipment and asylum? Shinra have their claws deep into every corner of this planet. You and I both know this. You and I both helped do this.”

Angeal frowned, looking away.

Sephiroth rubbed at his temple with one hand. “It’s not that I disagree with you, Angeal,” he said, more gently. “But I confess I cannot at present see a course of action that benefits us.”

“What an unusual thing to witness,” Genesis said. “The great Sephiroth at a loss.”

Angeal looked at his friend, clearly disappointed. “Don’t, Genesis.”

Sephiroth ignored Genesis, continuing to speak to Angeal. “As loath as I am to admit it, it may be wise not to discount Shinra. They were willing to terminate Genesis, but to attempt such a thing on all three of us would be foolish. There is a possibility they will be open to negotiations at some point in the future, and while I put little faith in them, they possess resources we currently lack.”

Genesis bared his teeth. “They were the ones who did this to us.”

It wasn’t for the first time that Sephiroth felt some semblance of regret over his decision to leave Shinra. It had been a rash thing to do, uncalculated, bred from anger. He had possessed no small measure of influence in Midgar. He likely still did. He could have convinced Shinra that Angeal was simply in talks with Genesis. That they would return when the time was right. He could have bought them that time. But now, now it was treason. Gast, too, had been gravely inconvenienced by Sephiroth’s haste. They would have benefitted enormously from the resources and opinions of his colleagues in the field of genetics. But whom could they contact now that would not lead Shinra directly to their doorstep?

It was Sephiroth’s fault as well, that Hojo was dead. He had done it himself, spurred on by what the scientist had done to Vincent. It left him with a feeling of bitterness towards the boy, bitterness Vincent hardly deserved. But it was there all the same.

Nevertheless, he refused to serve a company that would see his friends dead. That had sanctioned the very experiments that would see it done. And without the regular blood transfusions Sephiroth provided, they already would be.

Genesis opened his mouth as if to say something more, but stopped short as he looked through Sephiroth at what was behind him. Sephiroth turned back.

A line of static flickered across the screen before promptly disappearing.

Angeal’s brows knit together. “A malfunction?”

But it was humming to life. Sephiroth could hear it. There was more static: two slashes across the screen now, pulsating from top to bottom. The radio stuttered to life as well, muffled and scratchy. He checked the outgoing equipment quickly, but found it all to be as non-functioning as he had thought. If someone were attempting to make contact, they would be blind and deaf to him. Good.

“It will not be Shinra,” he said. “They would not attempt to contact us this way.”

“Gast told me none of this has been used in years,” Angeal added.

It should have been nothing, but they all watched as if transfixed. Sephiroth considered shutting everything down, but curiosity could get the better of even him. The static had taken over most of the screen now, and the scratchy noises coming from the radio were beginning to sound distinctly like a human voice, although none of them could make out what was being said. Sephiroth’s gut began to clench, a rare show of unease, although it should not have had any reason to do so during this particular occurrence. Something was wrong. The clarity of the voice continued to improve, only adding to the sense of foreboding. There was something about it he felt he ought to know, but at the same time, he couldn’t place it. Then he made out the first almost intelligible word through all the interference.

“Vi—ent.”

No. He had misheard. The couch creaked, and Sephiroth looked over to see Zack sitting stock-still and unusually straight. There was a terrible sound from the radio suddenly, like nails on a chalkboard, but deafening. Then there was nothing. And then, finally, the voice came through, clear as day, and Sephiroth’s insides turned to ice.

“It appears as though we’ve finally got through, rabbit. Would you like to say hello?”

For a moment no one spoke, the radio crackling a little, picking up movement from the other side. Every part of Sephiroth was screaming at him to destroy it, to shatter the screen into tiny, jagged pieces, but he couldn’t move. It was as if he were being pulled from the waking world into some sort of nightmare, where time stood still and the past caught up. Angeal stood, visibly concerned, but hesitant to approach his friend.

“Sephiroth, what’s wrong?”

Sephiroth wasn’t given the time to answer even if he had wanted to. The picture had finally appeared on the screen.

“It’s been a long time, Sephiroth.”

The man was only visible from just below his eyes to about mid-torso, but was unmistakable nonetheless. He looked relaxed, his left arm draped over the back of the couch on which he was seated. His grey suit was pristine, and the slicked-back blonde hair stopping just below his nape appeared rough and unpleasant, as though fingers could not be pushed through it. The only sign that he was truly there in front of Sephiroth, and not some twisted hallucination from what felt like a lifetime ago, were the harsher lines etched into the tan skin of his face.

“I see your side hasn’t come through. That’s a shame, but it’s no matter. I seem to have made a connection, at least. Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t have very nice things to say to me.”

Jade laughed a little, without humour, his right arm looking as though it were toying with something. “I hope you’re there, or at least have it set to record. I would hate for you to miss this. The last I heard of your location was some time ago, but considering your situation I would say my chances are good. Gast was never particularly adept at hiding.”

“Sephiroth, do you know this man?” Angeal whispered, despite the fact they could not be heard.

“So, you actually left Shinra, and for someone other than yourself, no less. I must say I’m surprised. It was an excellent fit for your, shall we say, unique proclivities. You left behind some lovely things. One lovely little thing in particular comes to mind.”

Sephiroth’s heart began to palpitate furiously at the implication, hatred pumping through his veins, settling heavy and unyielding in his stomach. The man was talking about something else. He had to be.

“It took him some time, Sephiroth, to come to terms with his own insignificance. It’s a difficult thing, to realize you have no more worth than those who came before you. And you didn’t even have the decency to tell him you were leaving, poor thing. I think that hurt him very deeply. But don’t worry. He wasn’t alone for long.” 

Jade placed his right hand over his chest. “You know me, Sephiroth. I’ve never been able to resist a broken heart calling out to mine. I gave him a few months to grieve, of course, before I helped him move on. He needed a little convincing, but saw my side of things quickly enough. I will be much better to him than you were. He arouses a passion in me like no other.” He smiled, and it would have looked frighteningly genuine had Sephiroth not known better. “Not even you.”

It was Zack who spoke this time, his voice high-pitched and wavering. “What is he talking about, Sephiroth?”

Jade paused. “It’s an impressive weapon. I’m shocked you went to such expense for one of your toys.” He reached down and to his left, and when his hand re-emerged, what it was holding made Sephiroth’s gorge rise. “I would say he must have been special if I didn’t know you so well.”

Jade ran his fingers down the length of the gauntlet, marring the gold. “I might have done it just to hurt you, if you had a heart to hurt. But the reward in and of itself is more than enough.”

Sephiroth finally acknowledged the others in the room. “Get Zack out of here,” he said. “All of you leave now.”

Angeal, although clearly distraught, refused to do as Sephiroth asked. “Genesis, take Zack.”

When Genesis didn’t move, frozen as he continued to stare at the screen, Angeal turned on him sharply. “Now, Genesis.”

Genesis grit his teeth, but, for once in his life, obeyed. He took Zack harshly by the arm and all but dragged him towards the door. The young man had begun to cry, pulling fruitlessly against the powerful grip of the First.

“What does he mean, Sephiroth? What is he saying?” Zack was almost hysterical, but Genesis did not relent, and the door closed behind them.

Jade’s right arm was at his side, moving almost gently back and forth. “I imagine you may not want to believe me. Would you like to see him again? Would you even care to? I can hardly bear to look away myself. Such a beautiful thing. Aren’t you, rabbit?”

Jade was right; Sephiroth did not want to see. Seeing would make it real, all of it. Jade was alive. Jade knew things he should not—could not—know. And what he was implying—but the camera was already being readjusted. It fell now to Jade’s right, resting between his waist and his shins. Sephiroth wanted desperately to look away, but did not.

Vincent Valentine was lying on his stomach next to Jade, his head in his lap, turned to face the camera. One thin arm was curled loosely around the man’s knee, gripping the fabric of his pants, the other tucked tightly beneath his own chest. He was clad in what looked like hospital garb: thin, loose-fitting pants, and a short-sleeved shirt, the back of which had been completely removed, held together by two strips of fabric tied at his neck and mid-back. Sephiroth imagined the outfit must have been white once, although it was difficult to tell with the myriad of bloodstains overwhelming the fabric. He was badly bruised, some fresh and bluish-purple, stark against his pale skin, others yellowing. They seemed to be everywhere, although they were concentrated on his upper arms, wrists, and hips, at least as far as Sephiroth could see. His black hair, much longer than it had been the last time Sephiroth had seen him, fell thickly over his face.

Jade continued to stroke the side of Vincent’s head, finally pushing his hair back. His red eyes were half-closed, looking at nothing in particular, as he obediently allowed the man to do what he wanted. His lip was split, and his breathing was measured, but trembling, as though each inhalation caused him pain. His left eye was blackened, and the cheek significantly bruised, suggesting that at some point he had been brutally struck.

Jade’s fingers moved from Vincent’s hair to trail down his cheek, over his lips. “Yes, you look very pretty,” he said.

Angeal approached Sephiroth, his hand over his mouth and his eyes confused, but stricken. Sephiroth shut his own briefly, and then looked back at Vincent. Months. Vincent had been with Jade for months.

And Sephiroth had been the one to abandon him to his fate.

His façade of apathy was crumbling, leaving him raw and enraged. “Leave, Angeal.”

Angeal would not.

Jade hadn’t bothered to adjust the camera back to its original position. “I suppose my actions imply that I’m offering you an exchange.”

He was silent for a moment, fingers rubbing underneath Vincent’s chin. “But no. No, I have no intention of giving him up.” He laughed a little again, cruel. “I cherish him.”

Sephiroth felt helpless, which humiliated him. He wanted to reach through the screen and rend Jade into a thousand pieces. He wanted to tear him apart until there was nothing left but gore. Something poisonous was awakening in him, something that had been buried a long time ago, left to fester. Something vulnerable, hurt. Something that made him feel weak.

But he could do nothing. The equipment was too old, too damaged to even consider an attempt to track the call, something Jade had surely already considered himself. The broken microphone silenced him. The image of the boy he continued to fail, time and time again, tormented him. He was helpless.

Jade hadn’t stopped talking, tilting Vincent’s head back towards him. The red eyes flitted a little before becoming heavy again.

“I can see why you wanted him. Quite the little fighter, isn’t he? Takes after his mentor. You should see the number he did on my shoulder the other day. Nearly took the flesh clean off with his teeth. He was appropriately reprimanded, of course, but one would think I’d have him tamed by now. I do like it when he puts up a fight, but it’s not so terrible when he’s docile and sweet. Tell me, Sephiroth, did he ever cry when you fucked him? It’s a very pretty thing.”

Angeal was looking at Sephiroth in disbelief. “Seph, what is he—”

Jade had Vincent by the hair suddenly, forcing him to flip over onto his back and then dragging him up and onto the man's lap. Sephiroth could see his hand pushing underneath Vincent’s shirt, palm flat against the boy’s stomach, petting. There was a little sound of pain. From this vantage point, it was clear that the majority of the bloodstains were between Vincent’s thighs. Sephiroth’s fury swelled.

“Boggles the mind, really, you leaving him behind so easily after all that effort, but I suppose it worked out well enough for me. After all, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

He pushed his hand further up Vincent’s body, pulling his shirt with it, revealing prominent ribs and more bruising.

“But let me get to the point,” Jade’s voice grew serious, all traces of mocking gone. “The world is changing, is going to change, very soon. A shift in power is coming, on a scale you cannot even begin to comprehend, that goes far beyond just Shinra. As for who will attempt to pick up the mantle of that power, well, I can’t imagine you will be very pleased to find out. They offered you an exchange yourself, some time ago. You were a fool to even consider it. While I’m disappointed you were never truly given the chance to fall into that little trap, I suppose I should be pleased I didn’t train a complete imbecile. But it’s of no importance now. They have moved on to a much more ambitious plan of attack, one that means you and your friends are running out of time. I care little for the grand designs of my former compatriots, but I look forward to watching this all play out. Yes, this will be interesting.” 

There was quiet for a moment, the only sound Vincent’s laboured breathing.

“Be careful, Sephiroth.”

The camera was moved back up, so Vincent’s face could be seen, Jade holding him in place with a strong hand around his jaw. “If I’ve been speaking to Gast or one of Sephiroth’s so-called friends, do pass this message along to him, won’t you?”

He pressed his lips to Vincent’s hair. “Is there anything you would like to say to Sephiroth before we go, rabbit? No? At least do him the courtesy of saying goodbye. This is the last time he will see you, I should think.”

When Vincent didn’t speak, Jade’s voice grew threatening. “Don’t be rude, Vincent. Look at him.”

Vincent did look, directly into the camera, and Sephiroth felt something inside himself break. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“Goodbye, Sephiroth.”

The screen went dark.

 

 

“Private Valentine.”

It was late, almost curfew. Vincent had been walking slowly back to his dorm, head down, his gauntlet impossibly heavy on his arm. He had experienced grief before, but this… this made him feel numb. It was like moving through a fog, nothing quite real because it couldn’t be. It was coming up on six months since everything had fallen apart. Shinra had not only lost its prized general, but two of its highest-ranking Firsts. Vincent had lost a friend, a teacher, and a mentor—more than a mentor.

Everything had been lies and secrets and rumours for a long time, Shinra scrambling to pick up the pieces, but transparency could not be avoided forever. Order had to be maintained in the wake of such a disaster. The unthinkable was announced, and soon after, Director Lazard Deusericus was appointed acting general. The shock at what had seemed impossible finally settled over Midgar like a collective nightmare.

Vincent had chosen denial at first, refusing to believe that the man who had risked so much to save his life would abandon him so easily. So he waited. He called the number on his cellphone—the only number—over and over again, but it had been disconnected. The days stretched into months, and with the passage of time, the truth became palpable, more and more difficult to deny. In his heart, Vincent began to understand: Sephiroth, the person he cared for the most, was gone. He wasn’t coming back.

Vincent looked up when he heard his name. He didn’t know this man; he certainly wasn’t a First. He was impeccably dressed, almost elegant. His sharp grey suit seemed to imply he was some sort of Shinra professional, but there was something about him that made Vincent doubt that conclusion.

“Sir?”

The man approached him, too quickly, and Vincent had to resist the urge to flinch and step back. “You know this part of the base well, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Your superiors have assigned you to me as my guide. I am unfamiliar with the area beyond the Third Class dorms. I have business near loading bay seven. If you would.” 

He gestured for Vincent to move in front of him.

The way he spoke instantly reminded Vincent of Sephiroth, which made his chest ache, although at the same time, it sounded wrong. It was dark outside, coming up to curfew for Vincent, something his superiors must have known. What business did a Shinra suit have at some remote end of base, particularly at this hour, and why would anyone assign Vincent the task of taking him there? Didn’t Shinra have people for this sort of thing? It seemed strange that they would send the man after him, instead of summoning Vincent from his dorm. Vincent wanted to ask his name, but refrained for fear of being rude.

“Yes, sir,” he said, wincing a little at how timid he sounded.

He hesitantly moved to the front of the man, keeping his eyes on him until he was forced to look away, the man meeting his gaze appraisingly. The sound of his steps behind him filled Vincent with unease. He felt fiercely alone. He wished he were back in his dorm, surrounded by his noisy, messy bunkmates. He wished—

He wished Zack were here. 

“Why the long face, private?”

Vincent started, having not realized that the man was now beside him, keeping pace. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s nothing.”

“There’s no need to be shy. I’m sure things have been difficult for SOLDIER these past months. It must have seemed unfathomable to you all, to lose your general in such a way.”

Vincent bit his bottom lip to keep it from quivering. “Yes, sir.”

There was a hand on his shoulder suddenly, and Vincent was surprised to find it almost comforting. “It will take time, Private Valentine. Do not lose heart.”

“Thank you, sir,” he whispered, his eyes becoming wet.

The man smiled at him, and it would have seemed perfectly genuine if not for Vincent’s lingering sense that something was wrong. At the same time, he didn’t want to refuse the comfort. He felt so tired, as though he were stuck in a mire, and it was taking every ounce of strength not to just sink down and let it take him.

They walked in peace for a short while, until the man spoke again. “There is no reason to mourn the loss of a man such as Sephiroth.”

Vincent frowned, not quite sure what the man meant. “Sir?”

The man didn’t answer, stopping in front of Vincent and turning to face him. The hand was back on his shoulder, only this time it crept towards his neck until it rested just beside it.

“You really should move on. I can help you, if you like.”

Vincent's stomach dropped, any comfort he’d felt evaporating. “I need to get back to my dorm, sir. It’s past curfew.”

The hand had not let go. “There’s no need to worry about that. You won’t get in trouble.”

Vincent tried to sidle away, but the man only tightened his hold on him. “Loading bay seven is just south of the third building on your right, sir. I’m sure you’ll find where you need to go from there.”

“I’d prefer you with me. Bad sense of direction, you see.”

“Sir, please. I—”

The smile was sinister, as the man brushed his thumb over Vincent’s lips. “Tell me,” he said, reverently. “Did you ever beg for Sephiroth like that?”

Their eyes locked for less than a second, Vincent’s dilating rapidly, before he tore away from the man, rolling to his right to avoid being grabbed again. He was back on his feet in an instant, preparing to run as fast as he could back to his dorm, back to where he wasn’t alone with this stranger. He barely made it two strides before he felt an iron grip close around his ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. His jaw struck the pavement with a sickening thud. He tried to get on his hands and knees, tasting blood, seeing it fall from his lips in a disgusting, viscous string, but hands, as frighteningly strong as they were fast, were dragging him backwards, moving up his legs. He attempted to strike the man with his gauntlet, grasping desperately behind his back, but the man caught it in his hand, ripping it off his arm with such violence Vincent thought his shoulder might dislocate. It was thrown off to the side somewhere, and Vincent was flipped onto his back in a movement so deft it made him dizzy. The back of his head cracked against the ground as he was left staring up at his attacker with wide, watery eyes. A large hand was forced over his nose and mouth so firmly he couldn’t breathe, holding him down.

“Now, now, there’s no need to put up such a fuss over a simple question, is there? I would have been much gentler with you if you had just gone with me a little further.”

Vincent was weakly trying to push him away, one hand on the man’s arm and the other on his face, but the hard body above his felt immovable, impossibly strong. The man just laughed softly, kissing Vincent’s wrist while he reached into the pocket of his jacket with his free hand. He pulled out a syringe, and Vincent let out a muffled sound of panic. The man hushed him, placing the needle almost tenderly at his vulnerable neck. 

The man held him down for several more seconds after it was done, until his vision began to wink in and out as his lungs struggled to take in air. Finally, the hand pulled away. Vincent inhaled desperately, too out of breath to even consider screaming before the man had wrenched him to his feet, pressing Vincent’s back to his chest and covering his mouth again. He smelled like Sephiroth, Vincent realized, held as tightly against the man as he was—almost minty, almost like cloves. Vincent remembered hating that smell, when Sephiroth had left him crying and alone in a bed saturated with it. He remembered hating himself for loving it when Sephiroth had stayed. But all he could feel now was intense, stomach-curdling nausea. He struggled not to gag, suffocated by the wrongness of it all. 

“Easy now,” the man said, pressing his face to Vincent’s hair, breathing in. “Just a little ways to go.”

Vincent wanted to struggle, to kick, and he did at first, but his limbs were becoming increasingly leaden, more and more difficult to control. In his desperation he tried to call on Chaos, a secret he never wanted to tell—not to this man, not to anyone—but nothing happened. Fire flickered briefly in his palm, but was extinguished just as quickly. Whatever he had been injected with was suppressing his magic. The man was dragging him—half-carrying him—past the three buildings, south. Everything was dark, so dark. This part of the base was dead at night. Vincent cursed his own stupidity. There was no one else. He was alone.

He was being pulled into the rear of what he realized was a small truck, his legs giving one last pathetic kick before he was roughly deposited on the floor with his back against the cold, harsh metal. He could barely even lift his head, let alone move his arms, but he could hear the man closing the doors behind them, trapping Vincent in the dark with a man he did not know, who knew things he shouldn’t. 

The man turned and looked at him for a long moment, his otherwise pristine dress pants scuffed a little at the knees. Vincent was beginning to register how much pain he was in, his head spinning and his mouth coppery. He could feel his legs being kicked apart, knelt between. He could feel hands running down his sides, removing his SOLDIER belt. His armour. 

“Who are you?” Vincent whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

The man didn’t answer for a time, pushing the pauldrons from Vincent’s shoulders, sliding the gloves off his hands. He ran his lips over Vincent’s wrists before placing them on either side of his head, limp and helpless.

“An old friend of your beloved mentor.”

He curled his fingers under Vincent’s collar, and ripped the front of his uniform shirt in two as if it were paper. He didn’t bother pulling it from Vincent’s arms, instead just pushing it aside to expose his torso. Vincent’s breath was coming in stuttered little pants now. The man leaned down and kissed him, slimy and hard, and Vincent realized in that moment that what he had known was going to happen the entire time had just become inevitable, concrete. He couldn’t move his head away from that awful mouth. He couldn’t do anything. Tears fell thick and hot from the corners of his eyes. The man pushed Vincent’s hair back from his face to watch.

“That’s good, Vincent,” he said. “You look very, very good.”

“Stop,” he pleaded, barely able to force the word out.

The man ignored him, moving down to undo his pants. Vincent felt revulsion rise like bile in this throat. The man only bothered to remove one boot, pulling all that remained of his uniform down over his hips, and then forcing the bootless leg up and out of the garment. He pushed his knees under Vincent’s thighs, keeping Vincent’s legs up and apart, and unzipped his own pants.

“I’m going to enjoy taking this from him,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy taking this from you.”

Vincent stared past the man’s head as it moved in and out of his vision, his body scraping harshly back and forth over the studded floor of the truck. The wetness in his glowing, Mako eyes made kaleidoscope patterns in the ceiling as he listened to the man above him grunt, forcing Vincent’s own breath out of his lungs every time he moved inside him. He wondered if he would ever be with someone who didn’t want to hurt him this way. He wondered if he would ever be with Sephiroth again.

It wasn’t long before it was over. The man kissed his stomach, then his chest, and then his neck. He squeezed Vincent’s jaw until his mouth opened, and slowly and deliberately spat into it. Then the body was gone from his.

The man stood, fastened his pants, and exited the truck, not bothering to close the doors behind him. Vincent thought that perhaps that was it now. That the man had got what he wanted, that he would be left for some grunt to find in the morning. But the man came back, having retrieved the gauntlet from the site of their earlier struggle. He threw it carelessly into the truck next to Vincent, and then closed the doors. This time, Vincent heard a bolt sliding into place. The engine was started.

Would his bunkmates care when the quiet boy in the corner didn’t come home that night? Would his drill sergeants notice his absence, send men to look for him? Would there be a missing persons report, or a warrant for desertion? If Sephiroth were still here, how long would it have taken him to realize his student was missing?

Would Sephiroth ever even know he was gone?

Vincent felt the truck pull away, more tears slip into his hair. He had been left behind.

No one was coming for him now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is already a struggle, which is not a good sign, but I got myself into this mess, so we're sticking with it! This chapter was supposed to be out like, a week after the first, but Sephiroth's part gave me absolute hell. I finally just gave up and half-assed it, so I'm sorry if it seems a bit messy. I'll probably come back and try to polish it at some point. My son is a complex man.
> 
> I keep making myself cry writing Vincent's parts and I have no one to blame but myself because I've headcanoned like, fifty continuations for CBND and this is the one I went with.
> 
> Also please enjoy my blatant overuse of the double-dash.
> 
> Just a casual reminder that this is self-indulgent trash and we're about to go way out of left field.
> 
>    
>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS: Mild Gore**

Angeal could feel the rage emanating from the man next to him, such an unusual display of emotion he couldn’t help but be distracted from his own shock. Sephiroth was almost shaking. He caught sight of the blue glowing from his clenched fists, and barely got out of the way before a streak of energy was sent flying at the wall to the left of the screen, cutting cleanly through the metal. There was a sound of anguish, like nothing he’d ever heard from him, before Sephiroth drove his fist into the wall with such force it nearly tore through as well. It was frightening.

He eventually found his voice. “Sephiroth. Sephiroth, stop.”

The man turned on him, face distorted with hatred. “Get out.”

“No,” he said, standing his ground. “I don’t—I don’t understand. Who was that man? Why did he—Vincent—”

Angeal looked away. He felt sick. He had never really known Vincent as anything other than a student, but had spent enough time with him to know he was benevolent, _good_. He had been Zack’s friend. Now every memory he had of that promising young SOLDIER—his smile when he performed well during training, his quiet laugh when he was with Zack—was being violently torn apart in his mind, replaced with what he had just seen. What that man had been doing to him, _was_ doing to him, filled Angeal with a fury of his own. It made him want to retch.

He wanted to ask Sephiroth so many questions, force the obstinate man to answer, but there was one thing in particular he desperately needed denied. “Sephiroth, is what he said true?”

Angeal knew Sephiroth did not need clarification as to what exactly it was he was asking, and when the man put his head in his hands, he had his answer.

“Gods,” Angeal could not keep the horror from his voice. “He was your student. He’s just—he’s just a kid. Please. Please tell me you didn’t—”

“I did not force myself on him,” Sephiroth said, almost hissing the words.

It was of little comfort to Angeal, still reeling in disbelief over what his friend had done. “When did this happen? For how long did it go on? Sephiroth, what were you thinking? You were his mentor, his general. He trusted you. How could you have done this?”

Sephiroth did not answer, but neither did he look away.

Angeal didn’t know how to even begin to come to terms with what he’d just learned. He knew so little about Sephiroth, this aspect of his life. It was almost a shock he even had sex, let alone with an underage Third. Let alone with Vincent. Angeal wanted to be furious with him. He wanted to take him by the collar and shake him until he could somehow justify his reprehensible behaviour. Had Vincent… had Vincent even been the first?

Sephiroth’s walls were back in place and his countenance returned to stone, the only evidence of his prior outburst the damage to the room. His outward indifference incensed Angeal.

“Don’t you dare shut me out,” he threatened. “Not this time.”

Sephiroth’s voice was emotionless, void. “What would you have me say, Angeal?”

That he hadn’t done it. That it was a filthy, disgraceful lie from the lips of a rapist. That the very thought of laying his hands on his fifteen-year-old student repulsed him as much as it repulsed Angeal. That this man Angeal called his _friend_ couldn’t possibly be this dishonourable. 

He deflected the question. “Who was that man?” he asked coldly, his disgust warping his speech.

The door burst open before Sephiroth could answer.

It was Gast. He looked alarmed, red in the face and out of breath. He stared briefly at the smoldering remains of what used to be a part of the wall, and then at the two Firsts.

“What on earth happened?”

Angeal swallowed down his anger, running one hand roughly over his face, unsure of where to begin. He could hear Zack’s muffled crying through the open door, and was grateful Genesis had managed to subdue him enough to keep him from charging back into the room. He needed time… didn’t know how he could possibly be expected to find the words to tell him. 

Angeal gestured for Gast to close the door behind him, taking a deep breath. “Who has the contact information for this system?”

Gast appeared taken aback by the question. “No one living I’m aware of. Why?”

Angeal looked at Sephiroth for permission to speak of what they had just seen, but Sephiroth wouldn’t meet his eyes, staring down Gast with such intensity Angeal wondered if he meant to harm him.

“We just received a transmission from a man who claims to know Sephiroth, who somehow knew he was here. He didn’t give his name, and his face was mostly obscured from the shot, but he looked to be in his late forties, early fifties maybe, and he was wearing a grey, pinstriped suit and a black—

Angeal stopped. Gast had turned white as a sheet, his mouth opening and closing a few times. He looked terrified.

Sephiroth finally spoke, approaching the scientist slowly, as if with malicious intent. His pupils were almost slits.

“Did you know he was alive?”

Gast shrank under the murderous gaze of the former general. “No. No! How—how would I? I’ve heard nothing since I—”

“Since you left,” Sephiroth finished. He smiled, and it was enough to make Angeal’s blood run cold. “He was still there for some time after you left.”

“He has one of ours,” Angeal interrupted, genuinely concerned Sephiroth might actually kill the old man.

Sephiroth head snapped towards him, and Gast breathed a sigh of relief. “Who?”

Angeal paused, struggling to keep his voice steady. “SOLDIER Third Class Vincent Valentine. Sephiroth was his mentor.”

Gast looked shocked, devastated even. “Grimoire’s son? Why? How?”

Angeal frowned. “Grimoire?”

“Grimoire Valentine,” Sephiroth said. “Vincent’s father, and a colleague of Gast, apparently. He died some time ago.”

It should have been a perfectly innocuous statement. After all, Angeal knew almost everything about Zack’s family. But under the present circumstances, Sephiroth’s knowledge seemed little more than an unwelcome reminder that he had been intimate with his far-too-young student. Angeal wanted to confront him again, but would not do so with Gast present.

“I can only assume it was done to spite me,” Sephiroth’s voice was laced with acid. “As for how, I would not presume to know.” 

There was silence for a moment, before Sephiroth spoke again. “Or perhaps it was done simply for the sport of it.”

“Sephiroth,” Angeal said. “You need to tell me what’s going on. Who is he?”

Sephiroth was unexpectedly frank. “He goes by Jade, or at least he did, when I knew him. He was hired to tutor me in combat when I was seven years old. The last I saw of him was shortly before I was sent to Wutai at twelve. I’ve heard nothing since.” He smiled again, and this time it was empty. “He is not a nice man.” 

Gast had started to cry quietly, and as Angeal looked from one man to the other, realization hit him like a freight train. _Quite the little fighter, isn’t he? Takes after his mentor_.

“Seph,” he whispered, taking a step towards his friend.

Sephiroth raised his palm. “Don’t, Angeal.”

Angeal felt something like sorrow wash over him.

Sephiroth turned to Gast, his expression almost wistful. “It is truly astounding,” he said. “After all this time, he has still managed to find a way to hurt me.”

Angeal wanted desperately to say something, _anything_ , to Sephiroth, but the man had already brushed past him, walking towards the door, stopping only to look briefly at Gast over his shoulder.

“Tell him what you will.”

 

 

Sephiroth. The name felt strange on Vincent’s tongue. It was like… it was like the taste of coffee when expecting tea. Not bitter, not really. Just a shock, achingly familiar and yet foreign, as though he’d never said it before.

Jade had not removed Vincent from his lap. Those awful hands were all over his body, pushing underneath the front of his shirt, crawling up his back. It was painful—Vincent was sure one or more of his ribs were broken again—but he made no attempt to resist the man. Jade did not like to be told he couldn’t touch what belonged to him.

Cruel men, be it by manipulation, allure, or force, always got what they wanted.

“Look at me, Vincent.”

He obeyed, no longer recoiling from those cold, blue eyes. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been forced to look into them time and again in the man’s bed bed, for the past—

For the past what? Month? Year? Time was a lost concept to him. His prison had no windows, no clocks. It was just room after room of stark white, harshly lit, penetrating. It burned Vincent’s Mako-sensitive eyes. It was inescapable, could not be blocked out by his eyelids or his hands or the coarse sheets he buried his face in. Please, _please_ turn out the lights. _Things are earned here, Vincent_. I’ll do anything, anything. _Anything_?

Jade did occasionally relent, but only when Vincent feigned consent, made him believe he wanted him. Vincent was so desperate for that darkness he sometimes believed he did want him. He was being conditioned, and he knew it, but what else could he do? He felt like he was losing his mind. Jade never took him outside.

Vincent knew Jade left sometimes. He knew Jade came back, to rape him, to relax next to where he kept Vincent chained to the bed. He’d tried to keep track of it all, as some sort of means to count the days— _twenty-fourth, this is the twenty-fourth time_ —but everything had blurred together.

“Never make me repeat myself.”

Vincent tried to answer, but his throat felt thick, and sore. He couldn’t force the words past his dry, cracked lips. He settled for nodding, hoping his silence wouldn’t anger Jade and earn him another beating. He wasn’t sure he could survive another so soon after the last.

Maybe being beaten to death wouldn’t be so terrible.

His acquiescence seemed to appease Jade. He pulled Vincent close, kissed at the side of his jaw just below his ear. Vincent shuddered.

“Did you enjoy our little chat with your mentor?”

He nodded again. He wondered if they had actually been speaking to Sephiroth, or if it had all been a ruse, another way to fuck with his head. He wanted it to be. He didn’t want Sephiroth to see him like this. He didn’t want Jade near Sephiroth ever again. The man had saved him so many times, had done more than enough for him. It was enough, enough now.

Jade looked amused. “Poor, little rabbit,” he said, walking his fingers up Vincent’s throat. “Falling in love with such a hateful man. So much like he was. Perhaps you should follow his example, and fall in love with me instead.” 

He toyed with a piece of Vincent’s hair, looking into red eyes, dissecting.

“He’s never going to come for you, Vincent.”

Vincent swallowed, tried again to speak. “I know.”

He didn’t bother fighting back his tears. There was little to be gained from stoicism. Jade seemed to like his tears just fine, and a happy Jade meant less pain.

Sephiroth would be so disappointed in him, how weak he’d become.

He pressed one hand gingerly against the man’s chest. “Jade?”

“What is it, rabbit?”

“Water. Please.”

“You know how to ask.”

Vincent let out a trembling breath. The back of Jade’s hand was smoothing over his cheek, deceptively gentle. He remembered Sephiroth doing the same, the night Vincent had learned of his father’s murder. He remembered the one time Sephiroth had held him, the coolness of the leather and the warmth of his body. He remembered Sephiroth there beside him, in Wutai, calling him _Vincent_ for the first time.

He had wanted so much to live.

Vincent placed his hands on either side of Jade’s face, and pressed their lips together.

 

 

Sephiroth had levelled a sizable patch of forest about two kilometers north of Gast’s residence. It had done nothing to ease his wrath. The poison inside him had come forth like vomit, bitter and violent. For how long had he dreamt of what he would do if he found Jade alive? For how long had the man been dogging his every step? How could he have been so blind, so utterly outdone?

He drove Masamune into the ground, looking at the bandersnatch he’d slaughtered in his rage. The beast had been thrown several meters away, nearly bisected, its guts forming a gruesome path from Sephiroth to the body. He approached his kill, paying no mind to the mess, the crunch of the snow turning to a squish as blood seeped out from under his boots. He placed his foot on the creature’s head, and pressed down until the skull collapsed, cracking and squelching, distorting what was left of the face. The sharp, canine teeth severed the tongue hanging from its bloodied mouth as its snout was crushed. It looked disgusting. 

It looked perfect.

But it wasn’t enough. Hadn’t been for months. He had long grown tired of wild game. He wanted human bone underneath his boot. He wanted Jade writhing like a worm in the dirt as Sephiroth destroyed him.

He had been blindsided by it, by all of it. What he had thought meant nothing to him was now a gaping wound. It made him burn with humiliation, even as it pumped wave after wave of ice from his core down through his limbs. In a single, ruthless strike, the man had cracked the walls Sephiroth had spent his entire life reinforcing. And now it all threatened to crumble away, exposing that hurt little boy from so long ago.

It had been foolish, in retrospect, to have ever thought he was free of Jade. The man had spent years burning himself into Sephiroth, making him a monster. But that first taste of freedom, of absolute control on the battlegrounds of Wutai, had numbed him to all that came before. He had never gone back to his childhood labs after that, and as the years passed without so much as a whisper of Jade, so had any semblance of power the man had once had over him.

The labs. Sephiroth felt stupid, sick. It made a disgusting sort of sense, for Hojo to have maintained a relationship with Jade. For all he knew, the man had been paid for his services in information about Sephiroth’s life. And he had been careless, far too much so, in his purging of the labs following Hojo’s death. It had all been there: Sephiroth, Vincent, Chaos. Jade would have seen him murder Hojo for a boy.

It was possible the man had made an educated guess regarding the nature of Sephiroth’s relationship with Vincent, based on whatever evidence he’d gathered from the labs—Sephiroth’s caring, his vengeance—but instinct told him things had gone much further than that. It was nauseating, to consider the possibility they’d been followed, Jade watching them, watching Sephiroth as he’d enjoyed Vincent… watching Vincent.

He wondered if it had all been calculated, or if Jade had simply stumbled upon an opportunity to hurt him, and taken it. Or, perhaps, he had seen Vincent, the boy who was so much like Sephiroth and yet so different, and wanted him for himself. Just as Sephiroth had.

He had told himself once that his selfishness, his lust, would cost Vincent so much more than it ever would him. But he could never have imagined it would cost him this much.

He had failed Vincent, from the very beginning, in every way. He had never protected him, as he should have. It was his fault, all of it: Johns’ abuse, Vincent’s fateful trip to Wutai, Genesis’ ire. He had delivered him, giftwrapped, onto Hojo’s operating table. He had allowed himself to become compromised. It had been by his own hand that Chaos had been violently spliced with the boy. And then, after everything Vincent had been put through, Sephiroth had used him selfishly, cruelly, feeding on his loneliness, his affections. For all his desire to preserve that precious vulnerability in Vincent, that selflessness, that which would keep him from becoming Sephiroth… it was he himself who had ultimately begun to erode it, with increasing manipulation, callous remarks, at one point even physical violence. It haunted him, to think he had ever dared to wrap his hand around that pale, little neck with the intent to harm.

And then he had left him behind.

And now what had Sephiroth condemned him to? To be Jade’s plaything until sickness or brutality took him? For all the man had put Sephiroth through, he had been, in a warped sort of way, safe. Things had been expected for him. Hojo would never have allowed him to be killed, crippled, or even disfigured. 

Vincent had no such value. He could be tortured to death, and no one would ever even know. He would die, alone, thinking he meant nothing.

He meant something to Sephiroth. He had never been neutral when it came to Vincent, no matter how much he’d tried to convince himself otherwise. No matter how much he’d fought it. Vincent had been different the moment Sephiroth had lifted him from the wreckage. There was something there, underneath it all. Something he could not name.

Sephiroth closed his eyes, felt the sting of the bitter wind on his face and chest.

He should have let Vincent die in the rubble in Wutai.

He should have stayed with him, stroked his hair, and taken away his pain until he was at peace, safe from Jade and Hojo and Chaos. Safe from Sephiroth.

Instead he had delivered him into the hands of the two men he hated most.

Jade, for all his lies, had been telling the truth: Vincent had been with him for months. Sephiroth barely knew the boy on that couch. The already rail-thin body was emaciated, the black hair too long and unkempt. Those unmistakable red eyes had looked so hollow, so resigned. There had been so little fight left in that small frame, something Vincent had never lacked. And when he’d spoken, it had been a genuine farewell. Vincent truly believed no one was coming for him.

So why then had Jade waited so long to make contact? He had implied he’d known of their location for some time. If he had done it just to torment Sephiroth, it seemed unlike the man to make himself wait to enjoy it.

Perhaps he had done it to warn him. Sephiroth hadn’t been giving the warning significant thought, focused almost entirely on Vincent. Even now he was loath to give it much attention. The man was a manipulative liar, and Sephiroth would not allow himself to become distracted, not now. So what if it was true, whatever it was? Let it happen. Let the world burn. He refused to think of anything else but Vincent.

He had already made his decision, had since the moment he’d seen him again.

He was going to get Vincent, _his_ Vincent, back.

 

 

Angeal was alone with Zack in the living room, Genesis having gone into Sephiroth’s office with Gast to watch the recording of the transmission without so much as a word to him. Angeal refused to see it again, would not put Zack through it. Not when doubt was busy sewing its seeds in his brain, feeding the sickening thought that Vincent could not be saved.

He hadn’t spoken with Gast for long. It had felt wrong, too much like he was betraying Sephiroth. What he’d learned in that dusty, cramped room was not something he should ever have known. He would not tell Zack, nor elaborate on what Genesis was sure to deduce from the video. 

He shared in Sephiroth’s anger towards Gast, in his own way. To abandon a child to that degree of abuse seemed unfathomable. How could he have done it? How could anyone? But all it had taken was one look at Gast to know something was very, very wrong. Angeal had never seen fear like that, not even at the end of his sword. This man, this Jade, was a tyrant. Sadistic, Gast had said, impossibly intelligent and strong. It became increasingly clear to Angeal that had Gast attempted to take Sephiroth, gone against Jade in any way, he would be dead, and Sephiroth would have paid the price. And now he had Vincent. Gods, he had Vincent.

He couldn’t stand the way Zack was looking at him. There was despair there, but also a sort of naïve hopefulness that made his heart sink. Zack was asking him to deny what Angeal now knew was true. For the first time, he wished he could lie to him. Zack had felt so much hurt over the past year, more than he ever should have. But he had seen the gauntlet. It was too late. 

“Sit down, Zack.”

“No,” he said, defiant in spite of his tears. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

No more delaying. “He has him,” Angeal said quietly. “He has Vincent.”

Zack looked as though Angeal had betrayed him. “No. He doesn’t. He can’t.”

Angeal reached for him. “Zack.”

His student backed away, devastated. “No,” he repeated, his voice breaking. “He can’t have him. He can’t, Angeal.”

“Zack, please.”

Zack was growing frantic, looking around the room helplessly. “I don’t understand. Why? Why would he take him? What did Vincent ever do?”

Gods, things were already spiralling out of his control. “It was never about Vincent.”

“Then who is it about? Sephiroth? All he ever did was mentor him. That doesn’t make any sense.”

No. Angeal would do everything in his power to prevent Zack from ever knowing what Sephiroth had done with Vincent. “Bad men have never needed a reason to do what they do.”

“But he has to want something, right? Why would he contact Sephiroth if he doesn’t have something he wants? We—we give him what he wants and he gives Vincent back.”

Angeal looked away. “He doesn’t want anything, Zack.”

Zack stopped moving. “What?”

_He already has what he wants_. “He didn’t ask us for anything, or offer anything in return.”

“Why?” he whispered. “Why then? Why hasn’t he killed him?”

Angeal couldn’t bring himself to speak. He paid dearly for his silence.

“What is he doing to him?”

“No. Don’t do this to yourself.”

In an uncharacteristic fit of violence, Zack thrust a lamp against the wall, shattering it. “What is he doing to him?” he screamed, approaching Angeal so rapidly that, had he been a stranger, he might have stepped back.

Instead, he closed the distance, pulling Zack into a rough embrace. He held him close, one strong arm around his shoulders, the other hand pushing through spiky, black hair. His student sobbed into his neck, hands in fists against his chest.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Zack shook his head vehemently. “We left him. We left him behind. We didn’t even tell him we were leaving. We left him all alone and now he’s—”

He didn’t finish. Angeal held him a little tighter.

The door to the office opened. He didn’t let go of Zack, but did turn his head to acknowledge the two men. Gast had taken his glasses off, wiping at his eyes with his free hand, although it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Genesis looked… Angeal wasn’t sure how Genesis looked. Regretful? Whatever it was, it looked wrong on his handsome face, out of place.

“I only met him once,” Gast said softly, eyes downcast. “When he was very small. He seemed so much like his father. Bright, and kind. It grieved me, to learn of Grimoire’s death. I wondered more than once what became of his son. I never imagined he would end up in SOLDIER, of all things, or that he would come to know Sephiroth, in such a…” Gast trailed off, visibly uncomfortable. Angeal met his eyes and shook his head. Gast seemed to understand.

Genesis was eerily quiet. Angeal felt a suspicion growing, one he did not like. “Genesis, did you know?”

There was no shame on Genesis’ face, only that same, nameless expression, as he gave a slow nod. It should have been a bombshell, but all Angeal could do was wonder if he’d ever known his friends at all.

“Know what?” Zack mumbled.

None of the men answered. Zack pulled away from Angeal. “What are we going to do?”

“We need to leave this place, and soon,” Angeal said. “We’re dealing with an enemy we know almost nothing about, who somehow seems to know everything about us. While I would like to think he would be no match for Sephiroth, or even Genesis and I, it’s not a risk I’m willing to take with you and Gast—”

Zack let out a frustrated noise from deep inside his chest. “No. About Vincent.”

Angeal swallowed the lump in his throat. “Zack…”

“Stop saying my name like that,” he spat out. “We’re not leaving him again.”

Surprisingly, it was Gast who spoke next. “He would sooner kill him than give him back,” he said quietly. “There is nothing you could offer him, if Vincent is what he wants.”

Zack looked so defeated, so broken. He sank into a crouch, his head in his arms, openly weeping. It was all Angeal could do to keep his composure. He moved to kneel down beside him.

“Zack, we have to prioritize. We have no choice. Genesis and I are still not well. We have nothing to—”

Angeal was interrupted by the sound of a door opening so violently it struck the wall with a resounding bang. Even Genesis had sense enough to flinch. Sephiroth came into the room like a storm, swift and unyielding, Masamune stained with blood. Zack, on the verge of defeat, had been gifted a powerful ally.

“We’re going to find them,” Sephiroth ordered. “We’re going to find them, I’m going to kill him, and I’m going to take Vincent back.”

But they were never given the chance. Not even a week later, the world fell apart. Jade had been telling the truth.

The Weapons were waking up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ THIS. I KNOW IT'S LONG. BUT DO IT FOR ME.**
> 
> I'm sorry.
> 
> I am SO sorry.
> 
> Before anyone panics (if anyone is still here), **THIS IS CHAPTER 3**. Chapter 3 is under this essay-long mess. **THAW IS NOT CANCELLED**. I just feel like I owe anyone who still cares an explanation, because I'm still overcoming a lot of nonsense, and this wasn't just laziness or a case of lost interest. This was a series of unfortunate events followed by an existential crisis.
> 
> I know that sounds ridiculous. It WAS ridiculous. But hear me out.
> 
> I had a good chunk of material written for chapter 3 and what will now be chapter 4 a week after I posted Chapter 2. I was so thrilled to finally be doing this, and I can't express how encouraging your comments were. I didn't think I'd get any, so to hear that people were actually excited about my self-indulgent nonsense blew my mind. Seriously, CBND is so irrationally important to me, and to have people to share that with, even just a few, means so much. Thaw pretty quickly topped my list of priorities, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to see it through, even though I'd never undertaken such a big project before, and had no idea what I was doing.
> 
> And then I made a really, really stupid mistake.
> 
> I read a fanfic.
> 
> That's right. A fanfic. That thing I do all the time. And it was well written! Well liked! It had Sephiroth in it! Lots of Sephiroth!
> 
> And it traumatized me.
> 
> I'm not kidding. You have no idea how much I wish I were. I had to pull away from the FFVII fandom entirely for a while because just looking at Sephiroth made me feel sick to the point of physical nausea. I couldn't even browse AO3 because every update felt like a knife in the gut. My mental health deteriorated so badly I was crying daily, sometimes for hours, just thinking about it. Please understand: I couldn't engage with Counterfeit God's Sephiroth. I couldn't engage with Sephiroth at all. I was that distraught.
> 
> It was a distressing and confusing time, and an entirely new and wholly unpleasant experience for me. I've always been good at divorcing fiction from reality, and if I don't like something, I disregard it and move on. I am generally quite accepting of "problematic " fanfiction (more on this shortly), and fully cognizant of my own guilty pleasures, of which there are many, and some dangerously close to extremely sensitive territory. So to experience genuine feelings of anger towards an author, to desperately wish something didn't exist simply because it upset me, was a terrible and discouraging way to feel.
> 
> I suffered a lot of guilt over it. So much—arguably all—of the fault lies with me. I didn't heed the tags (there were the archive warnings for rape/non-con and graphic depictions of violence, but little else pertaining to their context, which is not the author's problem, but... wow, would a rape/redemption tag have saved me a lot of grief, or just anything to denote that one romantic lead was going to viciously assault and then continue to dehumanize and objectify the other for chapters afterwards). I knew going in that it was possible Sephiroth's characterization might upset me, based on tidbits of information from the author's blog, and I read it anyway. I badly underestimated the way personal trauma would affect my reading of it. And even after the severity of my mistake hit me, I kept going, because I was desperate for it to redeem itself somehow, which was a foolish and self-destructive thing to do. Because there is nothing the author could have done to make it better for me. All I succeeded in doing was twisting the knife.
> 
> What happened is not the author's fault. They do not owe me justification for their work. They did nothing wrong, and my own meditations on ethics and fiction, especially transformative fiction, support this conclusion. Censorship is a complicated fucking subject, but I don't believe it should hold significance in a medium as contained as fanfiction (I'm pretty uncomfortable with literary censorship in general, to be honest). Responsible consumption of fanfiction lies first and foremost with the reader, and I did not take the steps I should have to look after my own mental health. Wandering into a fic with a vague rape tag is a gamble for me, and I can't blame someone else when I lose that bet. **(cont. in chapter text)**

**(cont. from author’s note)** I'm getting better. I am better. I have more or less managed to sever THAT Sephiroth from other portrayals of him, even negative ones (I'm getting to you, CBND), although it took a lot of time and heartache. I never attacked the author, because that is not who I am, and even at my angriest I held firm to that. I did approach the author privately, and they were much more kind and accommodating than they had any obligation to be. The empathy and self-awareness they expressed really helped me to separate author from fiction, although they remain blacklisted to this day. Self-care sucks sometimes. 

Working through the trauma was harder, and the whole affair sent me tumbling down the figurative rabbit hole of self-examination. So after meditating on my own hypocrisy for well over a year, I feel ready to articulate some of my thoughts on Cold, But Not Dead, and where I plan to go from here.

Buckle up, kids.

I was sixteen when I first read CBND, seventeen before the end, and with each passing year Vincent’s age makes me more and more uncomfortable. Fifteen does not register as young when you’re sixteen, and someone in their mid-twenties does not register as old. As someone who slept with an adult in their mid-twenties when I was sixteen (this is legal in Canada), I’ve experienced this disconnect firsthand. But yikes, is fifteen young.

I want to make this clear: I have never stopped loving CBND, or loved it any less. I’m twenty-six now, and it remains not only my favourite fanfic, but also one of my favourite works of fiction PERIOD. So I am not and will never judge anyone who was not underage when they first read it (it is actually very much a good thing if you weren’t—shit was rated M for a reason). As I’ve expressed, fiction is NOT reality, and moral purity is not a measure of literary worth, far from it. CBND is a remarkably compelling work of fiction, and its themes are more than worthy of exploration.

But it is problematic (cue groans). Vincent’s age is far from its only dubious content. At its heart, it is about an abusive relationship between a man who is rarely condemned for truly reprehensible behaviour and a boy who is all too often condemned just for being good. And while I will defend to the death the right to create and consume morally complex fiction, I also think it’s important to engage with it. After everything that happened, I wanted to critically examine CBND and my relationship with it, and how my experience with traumatic fiction has affected that relationship. So, equipped with a fully developed adult brain and a decade of attachment under my belt, I asked myself:

1) Am I a hypocrite for hating one author’s problematic interpretation of Sephiroth when Counterfeit God’s is equally, if not more egregious (albeit in different ways)? Should my awareness of this hypocrisy affect how I engage with the themes and events of Thaw?  
2) What might the repercussions be of continuing to explore such a toxic relationship in a climate of increasingly uncompromising black-and-white thinking and slow burn coffee shop AUs? How do I reconcile the toxic aspects of this relationship with the inclusion of romance and explicit sex?  
3) DOES ANY OF THIS EVEN FUCKING MATTER IN THE CONTEXT OF FANFICTION?

Everything following this is going to be a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings, so bear with me.

I think it’s pretty fair to label Sephiroth and Vincent’s relationship in CBND as toxic. Setting aside the illegality of Sephiroth’s actions (Genesis states that Vincent’s age is a problem in Chapter 37 so I’m pretty sure we’re meant to consider Vincent under the age of consent in Midgar), it is an abusive, manipulative, poisonous thing, with an extreme power imbalance softened only by Vincent’s ability to transform into an eldritch monstrosity.

Sephiroth is a sympathetic character, but his treatment of Vincent isn’t. Motivated, yes, but not sympathetic. This is an important distinction, and one that is often overlooked. Sephiroth’s childhood trauma defines his relationship with Vincent, but it should never serve as an excuse for his own abusive behaviour. I’m still not sure where exactly Counterfeit God stands on this issue. Vincent wanting to forgive Sephiroth when he knows he shouldn’t is a major theme of the story, but it still kind of feels like Sephiroth is handed a get-out-of-jail-free card a lot of the time. He’s often portrayed as being “right” even when he’s demonstrably wrong. I’m a lot harder on him these days, but sixteen-year-old me was absolutely guilty of conflating sympathetic and motivated action, and even though I recognize it as fallacious now, it irrevocably shaped my own relationship with these characters.

So it follows that my interaction with the text will always be a little dishonest, because sixteen-year-old me was a hopeless romantic with a self-destructive streak a mile wide. It was easy to see romance where there was none. It was gratifying to see romance where there was none. I have never stopped cooing over the implication in Chapter 22 that Sephiroth covered Vincent with a blanket after he fell asleep on the couch. This stubbornness (I’m a pretty obstinate person in general) has carried over into my adult life, and self-awareness has never quite managed to suppress it. I don’t WANT it to, even if Counterfeit God is rolling in their Internet grave, and even if it does a disservice to Thaw. My relationship with this pairing is flawed, yes. But it’s a relationship that means a lot to me.

The most shameful part of me desperately wants CBND to be a romance, but it’s really not. It’s more like an erotic tragedy (which is also my new nickname for Sephiroth), so as devastated as I still am by its loss, I’ve always wondered how heartbroken I would have been if Counterfeit God HAD finished it. And if you think the ending would have been anything other than tragic, I envy your optimism.

There are things that have changed. I’m a lot less enthused about the sex scenes, which is funny because I initially skimmed through 33+ chapters just to find the sex before I realized how engaging the story was. There are a few reasons for this. I personally find the degree of erotic emphasis placed on Vincent’s youngness in Chapter 33 really uncomfortable (he’s fifteen, not nine… please either let him have pubic hair or just don’t reference it at all). I’m not judging or making any assumptions about anyone who does find the scene sexy. Again, it’s fiction. Vincent is a fictional fifteen-year-old. I may love him more than I could ever love an actual human child, but he can’t be harmed because he doesn’t exist. And there may very well be other reasons it appeals to you. Counterfeit God writes good erotica. This chapter is just… really not my thing anymore. Innocence can be sexy as hell, but all the emphasis on tiny bodies and hairlessness and Virginity™ was a bit… much.

Sephiroth’s behaviour in Chapter 39 also makes my skin crawl (in the span of a decade I’ve gone from “fuck yeah, get it, Sephiroth” to “touch my baby and I’ll fucking gut you”), although I recognize its thematic importance and am ultimately glad it and Chapter 40 exist. We already know how manipulative he is, but this is the first time he engages in blatant sexual coercion, as opposed to his previous very forward proposition. He makes an advance, and Vincent refuses him, both verbally (HE SAID NO SEPHIROTH, DO NOT MAKE ME COME OVER THERE BECAUSE I WILL) and physically (Vincent tries to pull away when Sephiroth grabs onto his waistband).

And Sephiroth doesn’t fucking let go of him. He actually starts undressing him. He kisses him without permission. Counterfeit God straight up tells us he’s tempted to take without permission. There is a lot of verbal coercion and manipulative language, and even a vague threat (not of violence, but of setting Vincent aside). I don’t think many of us consider Counterfeit God’s Sephiroth a rapist, disregarding the statutory definition of the term, but his behaviour in this chapter is pretty fucking rape-adjacent. Vincent wanting him and ultimately enjoying the sex doesn’t change that.

It’s tempting to diminish the objective awfulness of Sephiroth’s actions by comparing him with Jade, the actual worst person ever. And if you’ve read the literal first chapter of Thaw, which I assume you have, you already know I’m not at all innocent of this. But it’s still fallacious. What-about-ism at its finest.

I could write a dissertation on all this, but I should probably move on.

So. Thaw.

This is where it gets really hard.

I’m going to be “romanticizing” abuse (yes, in the quotes, because we’re going to talk about this). More than Counterfeit God ever did. A lot more than Counterfeit God ever did. There is going to be a degree of mutuality to the feelings between Sephiroth and Vincent that wasn’t there before, and this change will alter the tone and themes of the story in a way that is not entirely positive. I’m going to be writing explicit, erotic sex between two people that really shouldn’t be having any kind of sex, and I’m probably going to enjoy it. CBND’s Vincent also developed very differently in my head than I know Counterfeit God ever intended him to, and the things I’ll be doing for that to make sense to you are in direct conflict with the things I should be doing to make everything “better”. I wish I could offer you a more seamless and logical continuation, but… this was always going to be self-indulgent nonsense.

My depiction of Counterfeit God’s Sephiroth is also going to be pretty dubious. I don’t want him to be a total stranger to you, but there has to be some sort of tenderness to him for me to be able to write this story. I need him to be more than cruel, regardless of how complex and fleshed-out that cruelty is. I hope I can find a way to make this work for you. Sephiroth is a bitch to write.

It begs the question, though: is having an abuser unlearn their abusive behaviour and grow to respect (truly respect, not the “I have nothing but respect for you” bullshit Sephiroth throws at Vincent in Chapter 34) and care for someone other than themselves still “romanticizing abuse”? Does past abuse doom a fictional relationship from having future romantic value? Is Counterfeit God’s Sephiroth redeemable? Should he be forgiven? CAN he be forgiven?

I want to give a straightforward and emphatic yes to those last three questions, but it’s something I still find myself struggling with, because that yes brings me right back to the issue of hypocrisy.

Counterfeit God’s Sephiroth and the Sephiroth I suffer such visceral hate for are abhorrent in different ways, but they share, or will share, a similar arc. Character is objectively awful, character experiences personal growth, and character earns some measure of redemption. Obviously this growth is messy and complicated and not at all clean-cut, but the ideal outcome is the forgiveness of the person they harmed.

And the fact that rapist Sephiroth somehow earns the forgiveness of his victim makes me want to vomit. It makes me want to scream and cry and tear my hair out. I’m all for growth and redemption. But I don’t want him to be forgiven, because even in a fictional context, I struggle to accept what he’s done as forgivable.

Counterfeit God’s Sephiroth is arguably the more objectionable of the two. He’s much more sadistic, more ready and willing to murder on a whim, and is well aware of how much of a monster he can be (which I actually kind of prefer to a Sephiroth who thinks raping victims of war is an A-Okay thing to do). So why do I find him so much easier to stomach than rapist Sephiroth? Why is a Sephiroth who murders for fun so much more palatable than a Sephiroth who rapes for fun?

I actually have an answer for this. It’s as understandable as it is illogical, and while I hate myself for it, I think it’s a pretty common experience for many who engage with dark subjects in media. I’m going to hazard a guess that no one here has been murdered. But at least one of us has been sexually assaulted. And even when you understand that a portrayal of something is not at all about you, it can be very hard to disconnect from it. I think violence and murder are so commonplace in media (and committed by every kind of character, “good” or “bad”) that it becomes kind of an abstract thing. Rape feels personal. 

It’s an easy character flaw, which is a very gentle way of putting it, to assign to a villain. It’s a much harder one to assign to a deuteragonist.

To further complicate matters for me personally, I have enjoyed fiction/fanfiction with really questionable relationships. I continue to enjoy erotic dub-con. I have given a pass to many a fic that never outright or explicitly condemned its sexually violent content. And I’ve been okay.

I guess some things just get under your skin. In my case, it’s a fic that dealt with a lot of real-world issues, took itself very seriously, and hit too close to home. It was someone else’s fantasy, and my worst nightmare.

Let’s bring it back to the issue of romanticizing abuse. I have to take ownership of the fact that I looked at an abusive relationship and saw the potential for romance. Counterfeit God helped with that, distaste for fluff aside. But I hope what comes across as romantic in Thaw is the act of overcoming all that poison, and not the poison itself, even if expelling it is a long and painful ordeal.

I’m really not a fan of the clichéd “character is just so good and special that they “fix” this other character who has up to this point expressed zero interest in changing”. But in the spirit of true self-indulgence, there is something so heartbreakingly beautiful about Sephiroth saving Vincent in a selfish bid to save himself, only for Vincent to turn around and be the one who truly saves him.

I’m really spitting all over CBND’s legacy, aren’t I.

Curse my gentle heart. I am the last person who should be doing this.

As a side note, you could argue that Counterfeit God never actually romanticized anything, barring CBND’s indulgent sex scenes. I can’t speak for them, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they told me their authorial intent clashed with a lot of what the audience took away from the text/subtext. Sephiroth’s behaviour towards Vincent really deteriorated after Chapter 33 (Chapter 34 can go fuck itself), but conversely, people in the comments just seemed more and more hopeful that Sephiroth was going to fall in love with him. I suppose we are all of us gentle-hearted. 

I think the biggest difference between CBND and Thaw is that Counterfeit God was writing a tragedy, and I’m not (I know this whole discussion has been rife with spoilers and I apologize). Toxic relationships are generally not as romanticized in tragedy because there are no happy endings waiting for our problematic couples. This is far from a hard truth; your audience will always see what they want to see if they want to see it (case in point: me), and there are some authors that really, really want you to see it. But it can still be a meaningful distinction, and its one I’ve given a lot of thought to.

I’m going to use Lust, Caution, specifically the film, as an example, and I just want to preface this analysis by warning you that it is lazy as fuck and dripping with hypocrisy and would never fly in an academic essay, and that I am prepared to accept any and all hard rebuttals in the comments.

The relationship between Yee and Chia Chi ends badly because there is no other way for a relationship that flawed to end. Rape and violence aren’t portrayed as things to overcome in the name of high romance, no matter how erotically they’re framed. I’m not saying the relationship isn’t worth emotional investment, or calling into doubt the romantic feelings between the characters. But as an audience, we’re not left with the sentiment that everything is okay because they’re in love now. We’re not led to believe that there are no long-term consequences for the terrible things that happened. 

I think this is why I walked away unscathed from something as deeply upsetting as Lust, Caution, but was mentally destroyed for over a year by this one fanfic. The author took all the brutality of the film (and then some) and gave a remorseless serial rapist/war criminal and his only survivor special enough to deserve recompenses a happily-ever-after. I know I’m not being fair to the author. I know it’s more complicated than that. I know why they did it. I’m not ignorant of the parallels between their story and mine. But it HURT. It really did. And it still does. I had to take several breaks from writing this just to let myself cry again for a while.

But there comes a time when you have to forgive yourself, for your hypocrisy and your guilt, and for your trauma. Navigating fiction with any kind of a history is HARD, and you have to be gentle with yourself when you make mistakes, and you will make mistakes. So must you be gentle with others. Transformative fiction is a unique medium; we explore themes we hesitate to in mainstream fiction, and are completely intolerant of in reality. This author wanted to see redemption where there so often is none. I have to forgive them for that. And I have to forgive myself for wanting Sephiroth and Vincent to be more than they should be. I lost a stupid amount of time to all this. Enough is enough.

I think I’m going to be okay, and I hope I can make Thaw work. Sephiroth and Vincent’s relationship will probably never be truly healthy, but it is worth confronting. It is worth exploring. And even if it makes you feel guilty, it is worth ENJOYING.

I do have a genuine fear that someone will think I condone abuse and/or sex with minors because of my attachment to this pairing. I really think it should go without saying that I don’t (AT ALL), but anti-shipping culture is becoming increasingly far-reaching and tyrannical, and the general and extremely misguided sentiment is that if you write it, you’re for it. I don’t have the energy to really get into this dumpster fire of a movement, but the only reason the FFVII fandom hasn’t been inundated by these sniveling slacktivists is because it’s an old game with an older fan base. It makes me dread the remake (a thing I’m starting to believe we collectively hallucinated), which is a shame. Sephentine has been my ride-or-die OTP for well over a decade and I would really prefer not to have an anvil of incest discourse dropped on my skull.

I hope fandom can move past this unfortunate shift. We’re better than this.

To be perfectly honest, I probably wouldn’t continue to read a story I knew contained explicit underage content were I to come across it now, barring it being highly recommended to me by someone I trust. But I don’t regret having read CBND. I mean I regret it in the sense that it has dominated my headspace for fucking ten years and it makes me cry a lot. But it’s so special to me, and I don’t want to feel like it’s something I should be ashamed of.

SO.

Moving forward.

I fleshed out the tags quite a bit. I’ll also be incorporating chapter-specific warnings, both to avoid clutter, and to be as transparent as possible. If you’re a fan of CBND, you obviously have a high threshold for upsetting content, but I still want to be as responsible an author as I can be—I don’t want to make anyone feel the way I did. Please let me know if I ever miss anything you would have appreciated a tag/warning for. I want this to be a good experience for you.

I added a specific tag for it, but I do want to state outright that the majority of the content warnings do not apply to Sephiroth and Vincent’s relationship. Sephiroth is going to need to work on his terrible sex etiquette, yes. There will be obstacles both he and Vincent must learn to navigate to develop some sort of a healthy sexual relationship in the wake of trauma. But I don’t plan for any further sexual violence between them. That being said, this chapter is… pretty iffy. Consult the chapter warnings. 

I like to think I handle rape/sexual assault with the weight, delicacy, and honesty it deserves in my nonfiction writing, but I am clearly not above Rape as Drama when it comes to a medium as forgiving as fanfiction. Thaw is my love of Hurt/Comfort incarnate, and it is heavy on the hurt. I guess it just matters to me, who it is doing the hurting.

Speaking of upsetting content: I kind of want to explore more of the relationship between Vincent and Jade? I know that sounds ridiculous after all my bitching and moaning about being a hypocrite, but I threw together a few rough sequences while relearning how to interact with sexually violent material (and still avoiding Sephiroth like the plague), and I ended up finding them quite engaging. (I know, I know… I was so fucked up about Sephiroth I somehow found JADE more tolerable. Go figure.) Is this something you guys would be interested in reading? I was originally going to leave almost everything to the imagination, but… it works better than I thought it would. I have no interest in writing explicit rape between them, but I would be depicting abuse, occasionally in graphic detail. Let me know.

Again, I’m sorry for the delay. Considering CBND’s history, abandonment is pretty unforgivable. I would be furious with me if I were you. I should have been able to shave off at least a few months of waiting, but I came back to Thaw with a far more critical eye, and it didn’t so much help me improve as it did hinder me completely. I actually kind of hate it now? But I’m not starting over, because if I start over I won’t learn anything. Consider this a practice in not being a dumb bitch.

It’s difficult to write a sequel to another author’s work without completely aping their style, and wow, am I not Counterfeit God. I have no aptitude for novel writing, so diverging from my creative nonfiction/autobiographical background has been an uphill battle. I’m trying to find my own voice, because at this point the prose just reads so stilted and inorganic and unnecessarily over-polished and why is dialogue so hard and my pacing is terrible and I find myself using epithets because Counterfeit God used epithets and I’m just sitting here screaming at myself to stop using the fucking epithets and I remain in em dash hell which is my own fucking fault and—

But I’m trying. I really am. Thaw doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to exist, even if it’s only for me.

As a final note, if you’ve deduced the identity of the fic which started this whole ordeal, and for whatever reason are overcome by the overwhelming urge to bring it up, please email me at emmythos1310@gmail.com instead of posting about it in the comments. I should’ve been subtler and refrained from using such unfairly strong language while discussing it, but I was trying to make this as cathartic as possible, which for me involves hyperemotionality. I’d prefer they didn’t know how fucked up I was about the whole thing, because I know I’d be crushed if I found out my work upset someone that much (I held back a lot when I spoke with them). So please respect the fact that I’d rather not publicly discuss in a negative light the work of an author who is 1) a way better writer than I’ll ever be, 2) a very nice person, and 3) did nothing wrong.

So… yeah. I think that’s more or less everything, as well as I can articulate it anyway, which is not very. I need to stop though, because 5000 words is an absurd length for a poorly constructed mess of an essay no one asked for and everyone will probably just skip.

If anyone is still here: I love you. If not… writing this was good for me. Thaw will be good for me too. 

Emmy <3

 

 **CHAPTER WARNINGS: Graphic Sexualized Violence** (Note: this sequence involves Sephiroth, and was written in October of 2016—further content of this nature is unlikely, and while I would prefer not to spoil everything at the beginning of every chapter, if anyone is nervous about proceeding, please note that it is a dream sequence) **Gore, Murder**

 

 

Sephiroth stirred when he felt the feather-light press of lips against his own, and the warmth of a body that hadn’t been there before. It should have jarred him, but the kiss was so familiar, the soft mouth so gentle as it moved over every curve of his lips. He felt… safe, and at peace.

Had he ever felt truly safe before? It seemed such an unwise thing. But all concern was lost to the pleasant haze clouding his mind and permeating every inch of his small room. It was his room, wasn’t it? Something about the bed seemed off. The mattress was unforgiving, even for him—stiff, and plastic—and the sheets scratched at his skin regardless of how still he lay, harsh like sandpaper. Still, he couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so comfortable.

Sephiroth touched without sight, finding a slim shoulder, smooth and naked. He moved his hand further down, over the subtle ridges of prominent ribs and sharp hips. He kept his eyes closed, taking his time. Down a thigh and up again, back into the waist. He pinched lightly, toying with the flesh, such soft skin over such hard bone. The lips trembled, breathed a little gasp into his mouth, and pulled away.

Sephiroth tried to chase them, but was met with nothing but air. He could feel the body slipping out from under his hand. A chill settled over him. Something was dragging it away from him. No… someone. And not just from him. Warmth was being sucked from the room as if the air had split open into a gaping, black maw, prepared to swallow that body into nothingness, as if it had never been there at all.

Anger pierced the fog. Sephiroth lunged. He caught the body around the waist, fingers gripping too tightly, pressing too harshly into those defined ribs. He forced it against him and then under him, easily manhandling it into vulnerability, blind with fury.

And then there were soft hands on him, moving up his neck to stroke his face. Several fingers slipped behind his ears and into his hair, making him shiver. A forehead was pressed against his own, and then a mouth. He felt his chest constrict with affection, his aggression bleeding out of him as quickly as it had come. This body… this person. They were here with him. They were safe.

Sephiroth opened his eyes.

_I know you._

He touched the young man’s face, resting his thumb against a pale cheek as he traced the edge of an ear with his fingertips. Not just a body. The young man trembled. Sephiroth wanted to kiss him again—his hair, his eyelids. He couldn’t make sense of the desire to be so tender with him. It wasn’t in him. Not for this boy, and not for anyone. The thought alone should have incensed him. But something was urging him not to hurt this one, even as he began to ache with lust, watching lips part and remarkable eyes gaze up at him in adoration. No, Sephiroth didn’t want to hurt him. He knew him. He _knew_ him.

Sephiroth was so enraptured with the strange boy spirited into his bed that he utterly failed to grasp the wrongness of it all, his hands moving blindly over stark white sheets spotted red. 

He gave in to temptation, easily covering the young man’s soft mouth with his own, which opened to him without resistance. _Yes._ Sephiroth wrapped a greedy arm around that slender waist, coercing the young man into arching up against him. This time, he left his lips flushed red before moving fervently across his cheek and down his jaw—wet, sucking kisses. He pressed his lips to a frantic pulse, rabbit-like. The young man squirmed, writhing against him in a horribly enticing way. Sephiroth wasn’t sure if he was trying to escape him or roll up into him, but found himself too possessive to entertain any attempts at escape. His arm became a vise around the young man as he kissed back up his neck and over his chin, pausing to listen his desperate little intakes of breath before taking his mouth again.

The young man tilted his head to the side so Sephiroth could deepen the kiss, one thin-fingered hand hesitantly touching Sephiroth’s chest. Sephiroth whispered approval against his lips. _That’s it, little rabbit. Perfect boy._ The surrender only made him more aggressive, more insistent in his seduction. He let his knees support his full weight so he could take the young man by the hip and work that lithe body even harder against his own. The young man was responding beautifully, gripping the back of Sephiroth’s neck so he could keep their mouths pressed together, kissing back enthusiastically as he let out soft sounds of pleasure. But it wasn’t enough, and Sephiroth was losing patience. When he wanted something, he wanted all of it.

He dug his thumbs into the back of the young man’s knees, forcing his legs against his chest, manipulating him into a position only meant for one thing. And then—

And then the strangest thing happened. There was a whimper of protest against his mouth. The young man was attempting to move his legs back down, pushing Sephiroth away with his hands. Unbelievably, he broke the kiss. Confused, Sephiroth tried again, more forcefully. Again he was resisted, the young man struggling to move upwards and out from under the larger body. _No?_

Sephiroth let the word sit heavy in his mind for only a moment, and then grabbed his prey by the waist and pulled him back so violently that their flesh met with an audible slap. The young man immediately stopped struggling, folding his thin arms tightly over his own chest as if to hide from him. Sephiroth leaned down to kiss him, but he turned his head away.

Fury flooded his veins, the intoxicating haze that has no easily ensnared him dissipating in an instant. No one said no to him. _No one_. What right did the young man have to refuse him? How stupid could this boy be, how _impudent_ , to think he could trifle with a murderer? There were consequences for resisting. Someone had told him that once, someone who also took what he wanted. Sephiroth felt entitled to the young man, and if he needed to be taught a lesson to understand that, then so be it.

Sephiroth backhanded him hard, taking no small pleasure in watching that pretty face distort in pain. He was a brutal man; a blow delivered with half the force should have been more than enough to bring the young man to heel. It should have had him begging Sephiroth for forgiveness while he spread his legs like a dutiful little bitch. And Sephiroth, merciful god that he was, would have granted it. But the young man just took the abuse with a grim sort of resignation, not at all the reaction Sephiroth had hoped for. It was almost insulting, that the boy would prefer violence to being with him. So he struck him again, and then again, and again, until the young man began to cry. But Sephiroth’s cruelty won him little more than a bruised, tear-streaked face that wouldn’t even look at him. _Stupid boy, do you want it harder? ___

Sephiroth moved to hit him again, but was unable to bring his hand down. Something was holding onto his wrist. Crushing and icy cold, and invisible but for the indents in his flesh. Then the pressure lessened, and ghosted intimately up the back of his hand until it encompassed each finger. There were whispers in his head now, a single malevolent voice coming at him from all sides. He tried to grasp at it as it slithered around the periphery of his mind, just out of reach. Distracted, he was pliant to the force that moved his hand downwards, unseen puppet master curling Sephiroth’s fingers one by one around a slender throat before withdrawing.

The young man froze, tearful acceptance turning to surprise as he started up at Sephiroth as if he were only just now truly seeing him. Sephiroth considered him for a moment, relaxing his fingers and adjusting his grip. He squeezed experimentally, listening as the young man choked a little, feeling the contractions against his palm. If felt familiar, doing this to him. It felt right.

Sephiroth increased the pressure, leaning down so he could look at the young man more intently. There was an expression of disbelief on that sweet face, strange eyes edged with panic. Sephiroth smiled. The young man opened his mouth as if to say something, but Sephiroth pressed even harder, cutting off his speech. His lower lip wobbled. It was such a pitiful sight Sephiroth laughed. _Now you want to beg, you little cunt_?

It was quickly becoming more than just a cruel game, a lesson learned. Already the young man’s thin frame was beginning to jump off the bed in a curious little dance, inadvertently bringing his lower body in contact with Sephiroth’s. It reignited his lust in an instant. Sephiroth couldn’t quite decide what to do with his other hand. He could use it in tandem with the one already around the young man’s throat, or he could use it to satisfy himself. He contemplated how wonderful it would feel to push inside the young man as he struggled to breathe, what effect the constriction would have on his body. If it would feel anything like the spasming windpipe Sephiroth could so easily crush beneath his palm.

 _Do it. Do it, Sephiroth. Do it, little one_.

The voice washed over his ears like hot breath, equal parts alluring and repulsive. He wanted to so badly, but… something in the back of his mind was twisting painfully, dampening his pleasure. Sephiroth tried to focus on the vulnerable, unwilling flesh in his hand and how powerful it made him feel, but that desperate, writhing thing was clawing at his insides, rising in his gorge like nausea. It was trying to push the intruder out. Sephiroth faltered, stunned by its ferocity. His grip slackened.

 _But don’t you love me, Sephiroth_?

The young man was still pinned to the bed by the hand around his neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he took in what little air he could. His lips were pale and trembling and there strands of hair stuck to the wetness on his cheeks, black and silver. Sephiroth pushed them away. Watery eyes looked up at him, a few blinks enough to push out two more tears. Sephiroth watched them disappear into glossy, black hair. He didn’t release him.

The whispers had been forced from his head, but still licked at his ears, seductive and deafening. And that thing inside, that wretched, screaming thing… it was so quiet in comparison somehow, even as it continued to twist in his throat and his mouth and his brain. Sephiroth knew war so intimately, but did not know what part he was meant to play in this one: if he should side with the voice that spoke so indulgently to his most sadistic desires, or the force that sought to suppress them.

Maybe he was nothing more than a battlefield.

The young man reached up with one hand, hesitating—once, twice—before touching Sephiroth’s cheek. Sephiroth could feel how badly it shook. Slowly, he let his free hand close around the young man’s wrist to steady it, avoiding the eyes that searched his face, confused and afraid. He held the pale hand a little closer. The young man’s fingers uncurled, his palm flat against him. It seemed to chase away the whispers, ease that terrible twisting inside. Something in Sephiroth let down its guard. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to rest his head in the young man’s hand. He finally looked down at him.

Sephiroth could see it in his eyes, how wide they were. How the gentle slope of his eyebrows softened his face.

Hope.

There was hope there. The hope that pain, like all things, had its end. The hope that cruel men could change. The foolish presumption that hurt could be undone and evil unlearned. And it was there, in that single, benign expression, that Sephiroth saw it: a perfect reflection of the child he used to be. 

The young man’s wrist made a terrible crunching sound when it snapped.

He didn’t scream. He needed air to scream, and Sephiroth had cut off his lungs the instant bone had surrendered to the strength of a SOLDIER First Class. Jagged and splintered, it pierced through the young man’s skin and cut Sephiroth’s palm. He tossed the arm carelessly to the side, the wrist bent at a gruesome angle and the fingers twitching helplessly, and returned to his task with renewed fervor, caught somewhere between hatred and lust.

Sephiroth didn’t need the help of his unseen ally to defeat what was inside. He did it himself, forcing it further and further down until it was lost to a place where there was nothing to scream at but the black. It would scream and scream until it couldn’t scream anymore, and then it would whimper, and then it would die, another corpse in the mass grave that had lain to rest every other part of Sephiroth that had known mercy.

Don’t hurt him. You didn’t want to hurt him.

Sephiroth had both hands around his neck now, smearing it with blood. The young man dug into one of them, leaving behind little, red, crescent moons as he scrabbled up Sephiroth’s arm with his uninjured hand, and in a final, desperate attempt to save his own life raked his nails down Sephiroth's face, hooking two fingers in his mouth. Sephiroth bit them off, teeth cleaving cleanly through the joints, and spat them out onto the bed. Blood spurted from the stumps, coating Sephiroth’s lips, before the hand fell away. The young man stopped fighting.

His image rippled and swayed, and Sephiroth thought for a moment that he might have got blood in his eyes. He shook his head, blinking furiously, but nothing changed. And then he watched, fascinated, as bruises rose to the surface of the young man’s pale skin like oil from water, in places Sephiroth hadn’t beaten him. Flesh sunk into the dips and hollows of his body until his ribcage bulged, and his short, black hair slithered and grew as if Sephiroth had spilled a bottle of ink over the sheets.

Sephiroth’s chest swelled with pleasure. This felt so much better than fucking. Murder was so clean-cut, so _simple_. There was no room for misinterpretation, no inconvenient aftermath. No time wasted manipulating stupid little boys into believing the act was about anything other than Sephiroth’s gratification.

It would all be over soon. Sephiroth was reaching that state of euphoria that blinded him to all but the transcendent rapture of ending a life. He could hear the young man’s heartbeat, _feel_ it, frantic and deafening, and then quieter, replaced by a ringing in Sephiroth’s ears that grew louder and louder. The image of that broken little wraith was fading, too, blurring into a warm, white light.

 _Yes_.

And then there was nothing. Sephiroth came back to himself in pieces. Everything warm and good had fled the room, leaving behind only stillness and all-encompassing silence. There were no more whispers, no more screams. There was nothing at all. Sephiroth just sat on his knees, staring at the white wall behind the head of the bed, until his ears picked up a faint gurgling.

The wraith was gone, replaced again by the pretty young man Sephiroth had wanted so badly to possess. He lay unmoving, his eyes half-closed, although his eyelashes were so thick and black there was little to be seen of them at all. His neck looked horribly wrong: bent somehow, dark and mottled and stretched out. 

Sephiroth ran a thumb over his delicately parted lips. Still so warm. Blood was bubbling up from his throat and pooling in his mouth, enough to trickle from the corners. Sephiroth resisted the urge to kiss him again.

Sephiroth looked at him for a long time. He cradled his cold, ruined hands in his own, toyed with his severed fingers. He folded the young man’s arms over his stomach and laced what fingers he had left together, straightening his head and legs as if he were lying in a coffin. The young man looked perfect—a perfect little cadaver, all the more beautiful surrounded by the evidence of the brutal act forced upon it, one that really ought to be preserved if for that beauty alone. He pushed the young man’s hair back, and kissed his forehead.

_That’s a good boy._

But then, finally, Sephiroth truly looked beyond what he’d done. And in an instant, everything turned wrong.

This was not his room.

He could tell it wasn’t a large space, but the blindingly white walls—which on closer inspection were spattered with old, faded marks—stainless steel flooring, and high ceilings made it seem so much bigger than it was, and Sephiroth was now distinctly aware of the haunting little echoes that accompanied his every movement. Adding to the overwhelming sense of emptiness were the sparse furnishings. The single bed he knelt on was bolted to the floor, and four heavy shackles hung from its corners. A short distance from the bed was a horribly uncomfortable-looking chair, similarly fastened down and fixed with cuffs for wrists and ankles. Hanging from the wall was a longer chain attached to a particularly cruel looking iron collar.

And then there was the enormous mirror next to the sliding, mechanical door, built into the wall like a window. Sephiroth was positioned too low to see his reflection in it, still hovering over the dead boy, but the thought of it filled him with dread.

He stared at the floor as he delicately detached himself from the body on the bed, the metal painfully cold against his bare feet. Slowly, he walked towards it, grasping at the chair with hands still slick with blood, stumbling forwards until he could feel its smooth, glass surface against his palm. With ice in his limbs and his heart in his throat, he looked up.

Smiling back at him was not his own wicked, self-satisfied face, but Jade’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A second, gentle entreaty to consider reading the dumb essay I wrote if you have the time and haven’t already done so. It would mean a lot.**
> 
> This was originally the first part of a three-part chapter, but the second part still needs work, and I desperately wanted to get something out. I know this was short and plotless and probably really disappointing, but the stuff that’s been repurposed into chapter 4 shouldn’t be too far-off.
> 
> A few of you might remember that I put up a work early last year dedicated to art I had commissioned for Thaw. I decided to take it down and just post the art with the main work. Hopefully it will encourage me to keep updating, because I love sharing stuff like that.
> 
> That being said, there is going to be less art than was originally planned. I commissioned character art of Jade, which was really, really thoughtless of me. He is a horrific villain, and most artists are not at all okay with depicting a character associated with child abuse. I honestly feel terrible about it. It was a stupid thing to do.
> 
> So those won’t be posted publicly (which is a shame because one of them is probably my favourite piece of art I have for the fic so far), but if you really want to see them, you can email me at emmythos1310@gmail.com, and I’ll send them to you for your own personal viewing. Just let me know in the comments because I guarantee I’ll forget to check otherwise.
> 
> But I have stuff with Sephiroth and Vincent, so those will pop up occasionally with chapters. I may commission art of some of the other characters down the line as well, although to be perfectly honest, CBND and Thaw are so Problematic™ I feel kind of weird about it now. Like, I would love to give you guys NSFW stuff, but I don’t know how I’d even broach that with an artist.
> 
> … Madi if you’re the only one left I love you a lot.
> 
> … This was a lot of writing for possibly no one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **SILLY CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Hasty Worldbuilding, Lazy Writing, Bad Prose, A Lot Happening, Bullshit Time Skip, Evil Cliffhanger, Deux Ex Machina, Just… Terrible Plot Choices, What The Fuck Is This Bitch Doing, If The First Section Seems Phoned In It’s Because It Was, Honestly I Was Drunk For A Lot Of This
> 
> ... Writing is hard.

“Sephiroth? Sephiroth, are you awake?”

It didn’t take Sephiroth long to collect himself, or to realize that the repetitive thumping assaulting his sensitive ears wasn’t just his own pounding heartbeat. The voice coming from outside his door, muffled and familiar, was blessedly sobering. Gradually the adrenaline bled from his veins, until he was left with only a dull ache in his temples and a sickness in his stomach, which he quickly swallowed down, loath to even acknowledge such a reaction.

He had bolted upright the instant his mind had come back to him, his right hand raised and poised to attack, a sphere of energy swirling in his palm. The sharp blue light aggravated the throbbing in his head, threatening to bring on a real migraine. With a flex of his fingers he dismissed it, immersing the small room in darkness, the near black only disturbed by the warm glow dancing just below the heavy iron door.

Three more thumps. “Sephiroth?”

He sighed heavily, in both mild annoyance, and twisted relief. “A moment, Angeal.”

He disentangled himself from the furs—sticky, slick with sweat—that served as the only coverings on his makeshift bed: epiolnis feathers stuffed and bound in hide on a thick slab of stone. A spark of flame from his fingertips, and an oil lamp was lit, bathing the room in soft light. There wasn’t much to it. There was the bed, of course, as well as a small desk and chair. Several hooks had been driven into the bare rock of the wall on which to hang clothing, and a hollow carved into it to use as a shelf, although there was nothing on it save a single pair of black leather gloves and a hairbrush. On the desk there was an old-fashioned clock, which Sephiroth rarely bothered to wind, and some writing implements, and against it a certain famous sword, but other than that the space was devoid of anything personal, just a damp little cave in which to sleep.

Sephiroth allowed himself to sit back down for a moment, taking several disgusting mouthfuls of stale, metallic-tasting water from the large canteen he kept next to his bed.

He didn’t fight back the self-hatred this time. 

What right did he have to feel relieved? What on Gaia was there to be relieved about? That Vincent was dead? That Sephiroth himself hadn’t done it?

As if he could ever wash his hands of the part he’d played in it, in all of it.

Sephiroth rubbed his hands roughly over his face. Grief was such a hollow, aimless thing. A thing meant for lesser men. There were days when it was easily ignored, lost in the heat of battle and buried under the satisfaction of a kill, and other days when it took all of his will just to beat it down. But it was always there, inside him, a writhing amalgam of guilt and failure, of hatred for Jade, and resentment for… for Vincent. Vincent, whom Sephiroth had wronged so deeply, who had died under the weight of Sephiroth’s sins, now made to shoulder the blame for Sephiroth’s weakness. Vincent, whose memory deserved so much more than bitterness.

But it was enough now. Vincent needed to be forgotten, just as all the other tragedies of Sephiroth’s life had been. He needed to leave Sephiroth in peace, before that grief took Sephiroth resentment and blackened it into hatred for the boy who never should have meant this much.

Sephiroth pulled on his pants—a half-hearted attempt at modesty—before opening the door to allow Angeal inside. There were no mirrors in the room, but Sephiroth had no doubt he looked drawn, as tired as he felt, something Angeal was sure to comment on. Sephiroth couldn’t bring himself to put up any sort of a façade, but it didn’t matter. His thoughts were his own; if Angeal pried, he would leave disappointed. 

Sephiroth could hear him closing the door behind them, having already turned his back to him to resume dressing, as much as to hide the evidence of the vile lust still coursing through his veins, the overwhelming urge to fuck his anger away.

Angeal didn’t approach him, keeping his distance. “Reeve wants to see us.”

Sephiroth finished buckling his boots and reached for his coat. “Does he.”

“Yes,” Angeal said. “Apparently it’s urgent.”

Sephiroth didn’t reply, or make any effort to hasten what he was doing, almost leisurely adjusting his coat, fastening his pauldrons. He didn’t bother with his SOLDIER belt or his harness—never did these days. It was no longer necessary, and nostalgia wasn’t worth exacerbating the sentiments of disgust and betrayal from the surviving populace, even as they stubbornly clung to the only true strength they had ever known. Sephiroth’s loyalty towards Shinra had been middling at best, a marriage of convenience really, and now that there was nothing left, well… he didn’t have much cause to mourn. Still, he more often than not wore his uniform, as did Angeal. They were both creatures of habit, he supposed.

He finally turned to face Angeal, pulling on his gloves. “Did Reeve give you any other information?”

“Not yet, no. I only got the call around ten minutes go. All I know is he wants us there as soon as possible.”

Sephiroth considered the hairbrush for a moment, but found himself too tired to care. He just pushed the tangled, unwashed mess away from his face, and let out a heavy breath. “Fine.”

Angeal was looking at him with that infuriatingly gentle expression Sephiroth wished he would reserve for Zack. “Sephiroth, are you alright? Would you rather I—”

“I’m fine,” Sephiroth said, and it was more biting than he’d meant it to be. “And I would prefer you save your concern for someone who needs it.”

He didn’t wait for a response, pushing past Angeal to open the door, grabbing Masamune on his way. He walked out into a long tunnel, sparsely lit by several torches affixed to the walls—Angeal’s doing. Sephiroth preferred the dark.

His was the only room there, located at the end of the otherwise door-less, stone hallway. They walked down the length of it together, Sephiroth occasionally ducking to avoid hitting his head on the uneven ceiling, barely tall enough to accommodate him. It looked longer than it was; the torches burned low, and there was no daylight to creep in through the open entranceway at this hour, but Sephiroth could feel the whisper of a light breeze, and hear the distinct crackling of fire, the soft murmuring of voices, and the ever-present rush of a waterfall.

Deep in the Ancient Forest, in a place called South Sanctuary, thousands of torches dotted the walls of a massive canyon, casting just as many shadows. They illuminated the river, lined the edges above, and even rose up into the trees, many more obscured from the eyes of those who lived below. Two immense bonfires burned not far from where Sephiroth and Angeal had emerged, one on each side, surrounded by SOLDIERs and common men. They were tasked with keeping a careful watch down the river, where the torches lessened and then disappeared altogether into total darkness, and the only sounds were the creak of water mills and the calls of animals, foreign to most who resided there.

Trees with gnarling roots and thick trunks jutted out of the sides of the canyon, supporting the wooden walkways that led to hundreds of openings filled with dozens of rooms, ten floors on either side. And on the surface, clearings for farms and sprawling gardens, row upon of row of cottages, some only half-constructed. There were watchtowers as well, built high into the trees.

Sephiroth’s solitary residence was located just a few floors above the ground, and he and Angeal descended fully on a somewhat dubious-looking staircase that curled from top to bottom. The pathways along the river were broad and stony, and the caves large and communal: bathhouses, kitchens, and areas to congregate, mostly deserted at this hour. 

Two women were bathing up the river, afforded some privacy under the cover of a lush willow tree with branches long enough to dip into the water, although they had clearly not prepared for company. One of them—a petite girl with mousy hair and doe-eyes—squeaked when she saw them approaching, stumbling gracelessly into the water and sinking in up to her nose. The other—tall and long-limbed—didn’t move from her perch on the riverside, eyeing Sephiroth lazily, nonchalantly covering her breasts with one arm. Angeal, ever the gentleman, looked away, but Sephiroth held the woman’s gaze until she faltered under the coldness of his eyes.

Sexual interest was nothing new. Not much had changed in that regard. Sephiroth had long since realized that although his image was inextricably bound to Shinra, it was also strangely removed from it. He’d suffered very little vitriol after the fall, standing unscathed next to SOLDIERs bruised and bloody from having rocks thrown at them, dripping with spit, _SOLDIER scum_. People had flocked to him. Somewhere along the line, he’d become his own enterprise, and he inspired fear and desire in equal measure. 

So he indulged, just as he always had. Fuck. Discard. Repeat. But with each fresh conquest came an insidious dissatisfaction, an emptiness that ate away at the pleasure. And that emptiness filled Sephiroth with hate.

He’d tried men that looked nothing like him, and then men that looked too much like him, some slender, dark-haired young man facing away. He experimented with being gentle, which did less than nothing to assuage his guilt, and then cruel, which was somehow even worse, and usually culminated in him flipping his partner over so he could be sure the teary eyes looking up at him weren’t red. 

Nothing felt good anymore.

He hadn’t had anyone in months, and it was taking its toll. He burned hot with aggression. And he didn’t trust his own hand, because he was no longer sure which thoughts were his own, and which were Jade’s.

What kind of a monster lusted after a boy who had in all likelihood spent his final months being raped to death.

There were days when all Sephiroth could think about was how much he wished he’d just let Vincent die. That he’d taken one look at that dying boy in the rubble, and walked away. That Hamilton had found someone else. That Vincent had failed to reach the cellphone, and died alone in the dark. That he’d been slaughtered like every other Third there, like he should have been.

That Sephiroth had snapped that pale neck himself.

Angeal interrupted his thoughts, clearly attempting to ease the tension by forcing conversation. “Genesis is due for a transfusion today.”

Sephiroth gave a noncommittal _hm_ in response, although he had every intention of fulfilling his end. The hope of finding a cure had long since been dashed. All Angeal and Genesis could do was pray Sephiroth’s blood never stopped working, and ignore the fact that as time went on, they needed more and more of it.

They were approaching the waterfall that fed the river, the crash of which muted Angeal’s subsequent words effectively enough for Sephiroth to ignore them. Behind it was a well-lit cavern, not entirely shielded from the spray of the fall, which led to a massive double door. Angeal raised his fist and gave it three solid, deliberate knocks. They were returned, and then the doors creaked and groaned, as they were slowly pulled apart. 

Sephiroth and Angeal entered and approached the large desk in the middle of room, two SOLDIERs pushing the doors closed behind them, before returning to their posts on either side. 

“Gentlemen,” Reeve greeted them, offering a tired smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“It’s no problem,” Angeal said. “How can we help?”

“Still,” Reeve added. “I appreciate it. I know sleep is hard to come by these—“

“You said it was urgent?” Sephiroth interrupted.

Reeve immediately straightened, clearing his throat. “Yes. I just received an emergency distress call from Cosmo Canyon. There’s been an attack on the base there. Men from the Freelands, we suspect. It was mostly covert, but two of our men were killed, and they made off with some of the more valuable tech we salvaged from Nibelheim a few months ago. After what happened to East Sanctuary… we can’t afford that loss.”

Sephiroth scoffed. “East Sanctuary sealed their own fate when they decided to tamper with the remaining reactors. They fell because their greed bound them to the past, and it cost us fifteen thousand lives. _We_ look forward.”

“Yes,” Reeve conceded. “But we can’t just let resources slip through our fingers. This isn’t Mako tech. There’s no reason to believe it would attract a Weapon. We have to safeguard our own population, Sephiroth, now more than ever. And we can’t do that without the appropriate supplies. We need to defend against warlords, not arm them.”

Sephiroth supposed he should feel more regretful about East Sanctuary’s fate, but he was never one to suffer fools, and every decision they had made was another nail in their proverbial coffin. Settling on the outskirts of Midgar—the primary target of Weaponfall, the first of the major cities to be decimated, and the heart of Mako energy, the very thing that had driven ancient, organic weapons into a froth—was nothing short of moronic, regardless of the seemingly endless supply of salvage the ruined city provided. Perhaps if they had stopped there, everything would have been fine. But they didn’t. Mako had already pervaded their minds. 

And then, one warm, summer day, South Sanctuary received, in primitive Morse code, a single, long message:

 _It’s back it’s back help us help us help us help us help help help help help help help he_ —

And then there was nothing. Communication went dark, and the settlement called East Sanctuary, the largest of only four, was never heard from again.

No scouts were sent on the lengthy and extremely dangerous journey across the sea to search for survivors. The knowledge never even left Reeve’s office. They just… pretended it never even happened. Fifteen thousand people. Gone. A drop in the ocean of the millions that had been lost before them.

South Sanctuary was likely the only true civilization left. North Sanctuary—Bone Village—was only two thousand strong, and dangerously close to the Northern Crater. They occupied their time burrowing deeper and deeper into the ground, willfully ignorant of what they might disturb there. And the Wutai, whatever of them was left, cut off all contact with the other continents. _Rot in the grave of your own making, Shinra monsters_.

“What exactly was stolen?” Sephiroth asked.

Reeve faltered somewhat. “I’m not… sure… exactly. The call was brief. The only reason I called on you two specifically is because there is a confirmed Enhanced among their ranks.”

Angeal frowned. “How severe is the enhancement?”

“First Class levels, at least. Likely higher, from the look of him. He’ll be dangerous.”

“Just the one, then,” Sephiroth intoned.

Reeve was beginning to look like he’d rather be anywhere else than under the frigid gaze of a sleep-deprived, glowering general. “Yes, to the extent of our knowledge. We estimate them to be about fifty strong, and well armed for a rogue group.”

Sephiroth let Reeve squirm for another few seconds, although an Enhanced, even just one, might make the entirely unwelcome imposition at least somewhat worthwhile. 

“Fine.” Sephiroth turned to leave.

“Wait,” Reeve stammered. “You didn’t let me give you any instructions.”

Sephiroth took a deep breath. “Angeal and I will ride directly to the base, and the men there who _let_ this happen will point us in the direction of the thieves, whom we will then track and dispose of. Is there anything else?”

Reeve sank into his chair, defeated. “… No.”

“Thank you, Reeve,” Angeal said, smiling sympathetically. “We’ll take care of this.”

Sephiroth was already through the doors, where he immediately ran into Zack. Angeal quickly caught up, surprised. 

“Zack. What are you doing up at this hour? You’re not on duty until tomorrow.”

Zack was clearly exhausted. His entire face looked pulled down, and his eyes were puffy. “Can’t sleep,” he said, miserably. “Was hoping Reeve might have something for me to do. It’s been…” He swallowed, and tried to hide his glossy eyes. “It’s five years today.”

Angeal’s face softened. “Since Weaponfall.”

“Oh. Yeah. That too I guess.”

That brought about a moment of silence.

“Are you going somewhere?” Zack finally asked.

“Yes, to Cosmo Canyon,” Angeal replied. “There’s been an attack. I imagine we’ll have it taken care of before evening. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” Zack said. “Will you…” He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, biting his lip. “Will you look?”

Angeal put a hand on Zack’s shoulder and squeezed, forcing a smile. “I always do.”

Sephiroth strode past them, unwilling to tolerate the idiotic conversation any longer. It took every shred of learned decency not to look Zack dead in the eye and tell him how disgustingly childish his hopes were.

Vincent was dead. There was no earthly reason to believe he might still be alive. He had survived the apocalypse—that Sephiroth was sure of—but he could not have survived Jade, who grew tired of his games all too quickly. Interest turned to boredom, and boredom to contempt; the man had _hated_ Sephiroth in the end, and would have happily killed him had he been permitted to. And Vincent… had been old, for Jade, even at the beginning. There was likely little left to amuse him after the satisfaction of showing Sephiroth just what he’d done had withered away.

Sephiroth liked to think that Vincent had died very soon after that, and maybe even in a way that had robbed Jade of the pleasure of doing it himself—a rapid infection, perhaps, or a gentle passing in his sleep from the lingering trauma of one beating too far. But Sephiroth knew… he knew, that Vincent had suffered until his last breath.

Sephiroth tried to convince himself he wouldn’t still care if Vincent had died any other way.

“Angeal,” he said curtly, itching for a kill.

He heard Angeal sigh. “Try to get some rest, Zack. Think of gentler things.”

 

 

The bandits had been dispatched, Angeal taking care of the bulk of the troupe while Sephiroth dealt with the Enhanced. It had all been rather disappointing, hardly worth sending them both. Sephiroth had hoped for more from an Enhanced, much more than another thickheaded, Mako-drenched brute playing God in a dystopian sandbox. The man had likely been a First once, if the now garishly embellished uniform was anything to go by. It wasn’t exactly unusual, for men bred from violence to see profit in a broken world. He was hardly the first to succumb to the illusive power of an existence divorced from any kind of social contract. And the others, the followers—perhaps Thirds or even guards in this circumstance—were all too easily misled, seduced with promises of freedom and misrule, of raping and pillaging their way through the ruins of civilization. Unaware that they were, as they’d always been, cannon fodder. Such types rarely lasted long. Those that did created their own social orders, which in most cases amounted to little more than tyrannies.

The slaughter, although well deserved, had done nothing to sate Sephiroth’s hunger for something, _anything_ , resembling vengeance. He wanted a challenge, an opponent upon whom he could unleash the full breadth of his sadism. Someone exceptionally skilled, threatening enough to serve as a stand-in for _him_ , never mind the odds of such a man existing. Still, he’d left the degenerate a limbless, headless mess in the dirt for his trouble.

Angeal appeared to disapprove of the undue violence, eyeing the corpse with distaste, although he said nothing. Sephiroth flicked the excess blood from Masamune with significantly more force than was necessary.

“This was a waste of our time.”

“Seph—”

“It was,” Sephiroth cut him off sharply. “An armed stronghold should not balk at the sight of fifty unenhanced men led by a loutish halfwit. To allow the base to be infiltrated by common thieves is pitiful enough. To contact South Sanctuary for backup grossly disproportionate to the threat is another matter entirely. This outpost was built to serve the sanctuary, not vice versa. Half the men stationed here are former SOLDIERs. I would not have tolerated such incompetence then, and I will not now.”

“I’ll speak with Reeve when we get back,” Angeal conceded. “I think this may simply be an issue of poor leadership. I already have several men in mind I’m confident will do well here. Good men. Better prepared for the job. It shouldn’t take them long to whip this place into shape.”

“And their predecessors?”

“Have them sent back. I’m sure I can find some use for them. Perhaps something with a little less responsibility, in low-risk territory.” He paused for a moment, and smiled. “I’ll also stress to Reeve the importance of adequate consideration concerning any and all distress calls,” he added indulgently.

Sephiroth huffed a little in amusement. “A shame we are without the luxury of selectivity.”

“We do what we can,” Angeal replied. He examined the bodies littering the ground, frowning. “You’re right. Sending both of us was overkill. Reeve should have just contacted one or two of the outer patrols and redirected them. Even Zack could have finished off this lot with a little backup, although I’d rather he not travel such a dangerous road without me.”

“Overprotective as always,” Sephiroth mused. “Can you afford to be, in this new world?”

“I’ve seen the consequences of the alternative,” Angeal said gruffly, and Sephiroth bristled.

There was more than a hint of accusation in Angeal’s voice, intended or not. Sephiroth knew there was a part of Angeal that would never forgive him for Vincent, for failing to protect him. For failing to behave as a mentor should. He didn’t blame Sephiroth for Jade, not really, but what Sephiroth himself had done had borne a far more intimate sort of betrayal. There was a residual anger in Angeal that could not be suppressed, insidiously chipping away at what remained of their friendship. He was aware now, of that part of Sephiroth that was so dishonorable, so selfish… the part that would knowingly abuse a fifteen-year-old boy. Outwardly not much had changed—there was no room for enmity, not with all that had happened—but behind the façade of an unchanged camaraderie, the damage was done. Time would not mend what Sephiroth had broken.

“Should we burn the bodies?” Angeal asked, immediately abandoning the topic.

“No,” Sephiroth said. “Leave them as carrion. As for what was stolen, it’s not worth the trip back.” They’d tracked the thieves several kilometers north of the outpost, and he refused to coddle its men further by running errands for them. “Let them retrieve it themselves if its so important, prove they’re not entirely inept.”

Angeal sighed, but did not scold Sephiroth for his harshness. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s head back.”

They walked in silence to where they’d abandoned their motorcycles. Sephiroth’s was on its side and half-buried in earth; he’d quite literally launched himself from it at full speed, devastating his initial target in a matter of seconds and crushing another with the machine itself. He effortlessly lifted it from the ground with one arm and began to methodically brush away the debris. Angeal didn’t immediately mount his, instead walking a short distance from Sephiroth to climb a gently sloping rock overhanging a part of the ravine. His face was solemn as he scanned the horizon, slowly moving his eyes over great ridges of stone, down into the depths of the chasm, and then up again to the grassy flatland on the other side. Sephiroth tensed, something in his chest twisting unpleasantly.

“He’s dead, Angeal.”

He wanted to say it firmly, without emotion, but his voice came out murkier, as it often did when he was forced to speak of Vincent. Even in death, the boy seemed to have a way of disturbing his otherwise impregnable control.

“I know,” Angeal said. “And I hope it happened years ago. Still, it feels wrong not to try. I promised Zack I always would.”

Sephiroth swung his leg over the seat of his motorcycle, tucking his hair into his jacket, avoiding the eyes that were no doubt boring holes into his back.

“Sephiroth—”

“Leave it,” he said, his words dripping with acid. He revved up the engine, effectively silencing any further conversation on the matter. 

Angeal didn’t push him, although his frustration was palpable. Sephiroth knew he was only deepening the divide, corrupting his one remaining friendship, but it almost felt necessary, his only way of regaining the detachment Vincent had destroyed.

He made the executive decision to forego moving southeast, back along the safest, shortest, and most traversed route between Cosmo Canyon and the Ancient Forest. Instead, he led them directly east, just south of the border separating land claimed by the sanctuary and hostile territory. He had several reasons for doing so: primarily, he wanted to carry out a brief patrol of the area in order to eliminate any other rogue factions foolish enough to encroach on sanctuary soil, should they come across them. Angeal appeared to take his reasoning at face value, perhaps convinced by his ire at being deployed for a mission he deemed well below his station—it would, after all, be killing two birds with one stone. But another part of Sephiroth just wanted a few hours of peace, the drone of the motorcycle subduing thoughts he would rather not have, and discussions he would rather avoid.

They didn’t chance upon any others—he wasn’t sure if this pleased or annoyed him—although Angeal remained painfully aware of their surroundings for the entirety of the trip, and Sephiroth knew it was not for the reason it should have been. Anger settled heavy and familiar in his gut. Zack and Angeal’s inability to let go was nonsensical. It went against everything a SOLDIER ought to be, every incident of loss that had come before. What did the man expect, for Vincent to appear before them as if by magic, alone and unharmed in the southernmost part of the Western Continent? Vincent, as they’d known him? That strange, stubborn, _infuriating_ boy Sephiroth had last seen, truly seen, six years ago, and not the young man he barely knew, diminished and lost in the wrong man’s arms. What would even be left of him, if he were alive?

Had Vincent really meant so much, for him to be their ruin?

They were approaching the forest now, scorched earth turning rich and green before ascending into a wall of trees so thick it appeared impenetrable. A primitive road had been cleared through the brush leading up to it, but did not continue through the forest itself. The only true path to the heart of South Sanctuary was through its western side. To do any more than that was, for the time being, too severe a burden on their current resources, although its untamed appearance served well as a defensive tactic for their vulnerable north. Sephiroth and Angeal would store their motorcycles in a small armory carved from rock, well camouflaged by foliage and secured with a deadbolt of hardened steel, and then continue on foot.

They were not quite there, however, when Sephiroth stopped very suddenly. Angeal followed suit as quickly as he was able, his motorcycle skidding across the grass as he swung it around to face his friend. 

“What is it?”

Sephiroth didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the sky to the north. It had become overcast shortly after they’d departed, but was darkening swiftly now, rolling towards them at an alarming pace. He could hear the distant rumbling of thunder, but there was something else, something an unenhanced ear would not have been able to detect. It was too steady, in too rapid a succession. It was growing louder.

Angeal mistook Sephiroth’s behaviour as concern for what appeared to be an approaching storm. “Should we hunker down with the motorcycles until it passes?”

Sephiroth raised his right hand, a signal to wait. With each beat of what was not quite thunder, there was a widespread flurry of wind, each time a little closer, stirring up dust and debris and strong enough to force trees and plants alike to bend under the pressure. Sephiroth could feel the hairs on his nape prickling.

“Sephiroth,” Angeal said, his voice edged with worry. “We need to—”

He was interrupted by a sound unlike anything Sephiroth had heard before. It was almost akin to a death rattle, but deeper, more resounding, layered in a way that made it seem as if it were originating from more than one source. There was something distressingly organic about it. Sephiroth drew his sword, an action Angeal mirrored. The rumbling was almost upon them, sounding more and more like the beat of a colossal wing. Sephiroth braced himself.

The wind, when it hit, was nearly overpowering. It was strong enough to pull his hair from his jacket, the strands lashing against the exposed skin of his face and chest. He was forced to lower his head behind his right arm, or risk being blinded by the tornado of earth whipping around them. Even so, a rock struck his forehead with enough force to break the skin; Sephiroth could feel the wetness of blood oozing from his temple. He hadn’t put up a force field in an effort to preserve his magic, instinct telling him he would need every bit of it. He anchored Masamune into the ground, and looked up through watering eyes just as a bolt of lightning ignited the sky.

Through the clouds, the shadow of something winged and monstrous moved sinuously towards South Sanctuary.

Dread filled his throat so abruptly it took every modicum of his infamous self-control to force the words past his lips. “Angeal,” he said. “Shields up.”

The wind had settled enough for Sephiroth to look Angeal in the eye, and see, for the first time, genuine fear. Sephiroth himself made no attempt to mask the emotion eclipsing his face. “Shields up,” he repeated. “Now.”

And then he sent three slashes of energy up through the clouds.

There was another bellowing death rattle, the rumbling turning arrhythmic for a moment, before resuming a steady, albeit hastened tempo. The wind, which had been moving away from them, adjusted its path. Four immense sets of gunmetal claws pierced through the clouds.

Sephiroth accelerated, his motorcycle kicking up a spray of grass and dirt before the wheels finally found enough purchase to launch it forward. He turned sharply, pushing the machine to its limits to get the Weapon as far away from the forest as possible. He could hear Angeal close behind him. Sephiroth would have preferred he continue on without him, to warn everyone, order them into the caves—as if it would make a difference.

Sephiroth had known, of course, that something of that size could not be outrun, but he was still surprised at just how quickly they were overcome. The wind hit again, throwing him off-kilter, although he managed to steady himself. But then the creature met the ground, and the shockwave was so intense it threw the entire motorcycle. Sephiroth leapt into a crouch on the seat, and then pushed himself upwards and away from it, landing safely on his feet nearby.

Angeal was less fortunate. He managed to disengage himself from his own, but fell directly in its path, with no time to dodge. He raised his sword arm to protect his head, and Sephiroth heard the audible _snap_ when it made impact. The motorcycle rolled over him, sending the Buster Sword flying far out of reach. 

Sephiroth could see that Angeal was stunned and in pain. _Get up_ , he wanted to say. _Run_. But confronted with one of the Planet’s Weapons, he was utterly speechless. The enormous wings beat a few more times as the creature found its balance, and then it looked at Sephiroth with its beady eyes, and smiled.

Sephiroth had never actually seen any of the Weapons, stranded in the snow outside Icicle Inn as the world was torn apart. Only in the aftermath had he had them described to him, and he’d believed them exaggerated, even knowing what they could do. But this defied belief.

The Weapon was truly grotesque, both beast and machine, six-limbed and winged, with a body the colour of blackened blood and a great, glowing eye embedded in its chest. 

Its purpose was singular. Destroy mankind. 

It reared up on its back legs, and aimed one heavy, clawed foot at Angeal. Sephiroth reacted instantly, striking the appendage with five streaks of blue in quick succession, sending it stumbling backwards. Rumbling, it gnashed its sharp, exposed teeth, and turned on him.

The Weapon wasn’t as fast as Sephiroth, burdened by its own mass, but it compensated for that particular drawback with both sheer size and relentless purpose. Sephiroth was forced to expend most of his energy just dodging its surprisingly deft hands, while simultaneously avoiding the feet that met the ground again and again in an attempt to crush him—each impact sending him rolling—and the impossibly huge tail the creature would swing at him like a whip. It occasionally even went after him with its mouth, jaws snapping shut just behind him.

It was playing with Sephiroth like he was a fucking ant, strange, deep sounds resonating from its chest that sounded suspiciously like human laughter, disturbingly sentient.

The eye in the Weapon’s chest had been growing brighter throughout the fight, and it was almost blinding now. Sephiroth was becoming desperate. The spheres and streaks of energy seemed to irritate more than damage, and Masamune, which was capable of cutting through metal like butter given the right handler, slid harmlessly off its body with every strike. Sephiroth tried to get under it, find a weak spot, but its body was armored like a tank. He considered attempting to mount it, but it was burning hot to the touch, searing through his boot in seconds.

Sephiroth’s magic was running critically low. 

Frustrated with Sephiroth’s speed, the creature turned back to Angeal, who hadn’t moved, seemingly in shock. Sephiroth threw himself in front of him, putting up a shield. The force of the first hit drove his feet into the ground up to his ankles. The second broke them. His shield shattered, magic completely drained.

Sephiroth managed to avoid one last swipe of the Weapon’s claws, grabbing Angeal and throwing them both out of its path, but the other hand was already coming down.

Time stood still for a moment.

Sephiroth closed his eyes. Just held Angeal in his arms. He didn’t look at him, or apologize for all the things he had done. The thought that he could even do so was an illusion of the time they no longer had. He let out a breath, smooth and long. Then he bowed his head until he felt Angeal’s forehead against his own, and waited.

And waited. 

And waited. 

Surely this couldn’t be death.

He could still hear Angeal breathing, and feel the weight of him in his arms, the warmth. He was distinctly aware of the agonizing pain radiating from his ankles. And his own heartbeat, still pushing blood through his veins, pounding in his ears and his throat. 

Sephiroth opened his eyes.

The air thrummed with energy. A sphere of magic swirled around them: black, but transparent like smoke, with tendrils of red that moved through it like dye in water, and flashes and crackles of gold. 

He could see the Weapon through it, shrieking and rattling. One clawed hand gouged deep scars into the earth, while the other thrashed violently in the air, that same, strange magic writhing around it.

And there, in front of the creature, behind the shield of red and black and gold, stood a hooded figure dressed in black. Their thin, pale arms were stretched out above them, palms raised and fingers splayed, struggling to maintain the force field. They were visibly shaking and breathing hard, as if the magic pulsing out of them were agony. 

They faltered momentarily, one knee buckling under the pressure, but caught themselves and straightened again. Sephiroth moved on instinct, attempting to stand despite his badly damaged ankles, already reaching out to steady them. But one of the hands shot back to stop him, smoke and lightning unfurling harmlessly around his body.

Their head turned, just enough that Sephiroth could see, past the hood and through stringy, black hair, eyes that glowed as red as blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was reading this really extensive study on trends in fanfiction and apparently apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic AUs are not well-liked. Oops. Also take a shot every time Sephiroth projects on someone in this chapter. 
> 
> Next chapter will be out as soon as possible, because that cliffhanger was reprehensible, but after that updates are likely to slow considerably, since interest has understandably waned and because I'm a tired, depressed person.
> 
> Also it's going to be a punch in the heart so look forward to that.


End file.
